


Playground Love

by Johaerys (jo_writes), oftachancer



Series: Everything Will Be Fine [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: ADHD, AU- Modern Setting, Ages 10-17, Angst, Best Friends, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Coming of Age, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Poetry, M/M, Magic, Modern Thedas, Puppy Love, References to self-abuse/cutting, Secret Relationship, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, mostly OCs, teenage boys being teenage boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 78,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo_writes/pseuds/Johaerys, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: “I'm a high school lover,And you're my favorite flavor.Love is all, all my soul,You're my playground love.”-Air, Playground LoveEvery love story has a beginning. This is theirs.Thedas in Council 15:32 is a world thick with political intrigues and tension, an underlying inequity in mage treatment raising its ugly head once more, but in the small coastal community of Dunbarron Cross, Ostwick, these are far away concerns. For Aran and Tristan, there are family tensions and the struggle of growing up and figuring out just who they are. And there is sun and thistles and riding through the heather and swimming in the sea. Early days yet.
Relationships: Aran/Tristan, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Everything Will Be Fine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956673
Comments: 14
Kudos: 6





	1. To the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is a collaborative effort, and it features oftachancer's OC Aran Trevelyan and Johaerys' OC Tristan Trevelyan (no family relation, just the same last name!). You've read the tags and the summary- this is a gritty coming of age story, and it’s intended to be a realistic, visceral look at their growing up. They’re both under 17. You’ve been warned. 
> 
> Explicit chapters for violence or NSFW will be marked with *. Trigger warnings will be set in chapter notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Aran is 11 and Tristan is 12 years old.

[ **Aran** ]

_Council Age 15:32_

His nose itched. Aran sniffed, trying to make it stop. His hands were full of yarn, great skeins balanced in his lap where he sat cross-legged on the settee. _Settee_. Maker, he’d never get over this bloody house. Not house. Mansion. It was a bloody mansion, a fact that hit him anew no matter how many times he visited. Madness. 

It wasn’t that his family was poor by any means. They were not. But they weren’t… ostentatiously wealthy. 

_Ostentatious_. He’d learned that a few weeks before and loved the way it felt in his mouth, even when he was just thinking it. 

This was old money. This was ancient noble house money. Lineage that traced back to the beginnings of the Marches money. Funny, considering they had the same last name, but none of the same gold-filigree _lineage_. 

He glanced at the boy across from him, brows drawn together thoughtfully as he read. Behind him, the happy tears of the holiday clouds dribbled down the windowpane. 

He’d expected Tristan to drop him when they finished primary school. Patrick had convinced him that he would, or should, anyway. Tristan was from the fancy, old money Trevelyans, after all. He was an heir to an empire. Aran was, possibly, not even his own father’s son. He didn’t _look_ like his brothers and sisters. He was short where they were tall and bland where they were extraordinary. It wasn’t a subjective thing; people had remarked on his dissimilarities as far back as he could remember. Patrick had assured him that his mother had definitely been away teaching the Avvar to read when he was conceived. ‘A child born of pity’, that’s what his brother said. And while Aran was now fairly confident that the part about the Avvars probably wasn’t true, he couldn’t deny that he _was_ different from them. He didn’t quite fit. Not in his family. Not among his peers. He’d been an outlier. A troublemaker. Too much energy. Too little focus. Not handsome enough. Not social enough. Not brave enough. Not smart enough.

And then into his life had wandered… him. 

Tristan.

One moment, Aran had been sitting alone under a tree watching the other kids playing. And then he hadn’t been alone. There hadn’t been a question. Just… suddenly there was someone sitting next to him. He’d half expected to have his face shoved into the dirt at that point. But they’d just… sat. Quiet. And then the bell had sounded calling them back to class.

And the next day, it had happened again.

And then the next. 

And eventually, Aran had risked looking at the older boy. And then talking to him. 

And he still hadn’t been shoved into the dirt. 

And it had been… exhilarating. 

Suddenly, he was able to go places other than the tree. He was able to sit with other people. Talk to them. And they let him, which was amazing. Then they listened, which was more amazing. And all along there was Tristan just… being. Like a talisman or a living barrier from all the stupid childhood cruelties. 

“What are you staring at?”

“You,” Aran grinned. “Obviously.”

“Is there something on my face?”

“Yup. Your nose.” The nose wrinkled and Aran laughed. “Find out if we’re related yet?”

“No.” Tristan shut the genealogy book his mother had foisted on him and tossed it to the antique coffee table. “But I can tell you about twenty or thirty people I _am_ related to.”

“Any of them interesting?”

“One eloped and became a silk merchant in Antiva.”

“Ooooh. Very nice.” Aran twisted the yarn around his fingers, looping and stitching the thick veins of blue, yellow, and green from one arm to the other. “I mean, not very _creative…_ a little like being a fisherman in Starkhaven probably, but still it _sounds_ better.”

“Probably smells better, too,” Tristan smirked.

“Depends how much you like fish.”

“Does anyone like the smell of fish that much?”

“Seals.” 

Tristan laughed and the sound made Aran grin inside and out. “I don’t think I’m related to any seals.”

“You’ve got another, what, twelve of those books to memorize? I bet you are, somewhere down the line.” He chewed his lip, pleased with himself as the other boy kept laughing. 

“Maybe.”

“We could test it. Go swimming.” He rubbed his nose on his shoulder when it itched again. “I wouldn’t mind a swim.”

“It’s pouring, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“What? Worried about getting wet?”

Tristan rolled his eyes. 

“What do _you_ want to do then?”

“You’re doing that thing,” Tristan nodded at his hands and the yarn.

“I’m almost done. And that doesn’t tell me what you want to do.”

Tristan sighed, dropping his head back to the brocade headrest of a likely priceless armchair. “Anything but more family history.”

Yes. He’d expected that Tristan would disappear, despite everything. But then he’d walked into his first homeroom class of secondary school at the same fancy Chantry academy that all his siblings had gone to… and Tristan had been there, like magic. And still, he could have ignored him. But he hadn’t. It was like the summer hadn’t happened at all and they were right back to being… them again. And that had been ages ago.

“Actually… I have an idea.” Tristan’s eyes glinted. Mischief. He was up to mischief.

“What?”

“Stay there.”

“Where am I going to go?” Aran asked, lifting his yarn roped arms. “I’m webbed.” He watched Tristan abscond from the room with a grin and started the process of casting off his scarf. It was too long and it got progressively wider and looser from one side to the other. He hadn’t been paying attention. He’d just watched the colors weaving in and out and listened to the rain and felt so _okay_ simply sitting there that he’d stopped counting. Still. He was working on actually finishing things. That was a skill his therapist said he needed. So, he was just going to have to cast off and let the scarf be the Worst Scarf Ever and be okay with that. Harder than it seemed. He’d just finished the last of the knots when Tristan came back wearing an evil smile.

“What did you do?” Aran asked, enthralled.

Tristan produced a bottle from under his sweater. “Liquor cabinet.”

Aran stared. “No way.”

“What? What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean your mom is going to notice that missing.”

Tristan looked at the bottle then back at him. “I don’t think so. It was in the back.”

“She’s not going to ground _me_ if she finds out,” Aran squinted at him.

“So you’ll have to come over here to hang out. Who cares? You mostly do that anyway.”

“Less people. More space. Better food.” Aran folded the scarf and shoved it under a pillow, sliding down to sit on the ground, “Okay, what is it?”

“Gin.”

“That’s the one that goes with water? Or the one that goes with tonic?”

Tristan stared at him. “They go with things?”

“What? Yes. They go with things. You don’t just _drink alcohol._ They have… mixers and stuff. I think.”

“We don’t.”

“Maybe your mom keeps them somewhere else.”

Tristan shrugged. “This is what we have.” He fetched a few coasters and set them on the table, resting the bottle on one and grabbing the teacups from the service they’d been provided when Aran had arrived that morning. Fine china. Aran watched him pour into the cups. 

“So we just… what? Down the hatch? Like medicine?”

“I think you’re supposed to savor it.”

Aran took the offered cup and sniffed, immediately recoiling with a cough. “Oh Maker.”

Tristan squinted above his helping, “Wow.”

“It smells like glass cleaner.” Aran made a face, sticking his tongue in it and gagged, “Ack! It tastes like someone put tree bark in tonic water and then added glass cleaner _to_ it,” he coughed again. “Why would anyone drink this?”

“To get drunk, I guess.”

“Is it worth it?” Aran asked, horrified.

“It must be.” Tristan took a small sip, scrunched up his face, then took another. Coughed. “Okay. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

“This is like when you said you didn’t think spiders were creepy.”

“They aren’t creepy.”

“They’re creepy as fuck and you know it.”

Tristan laughed. “No. I don’t, and it’s not that bad. I think you have to actually drink it, not just stick your tongue in it.”

“My tongue is burning.”

“That’s weird.”

Aran grumbled, staring at the cup, then watched Tristan take another cringing sip. “It gets better?”

“I think so.”

“I’m filled with confidence,” Aran deadpanned. He pinched his nose and took a bigger swig, then covered his mouth when the liquid threatened to pour back out of him. As Tristan laughed, he shook his head like a dog, eyes watering. “Now my throat is burning. How good is being drunk if people put themselves through this?” 

Tristan was not helpful as he continued to take sips, look at Aran, break down in laughter, then repeat the whole process. “You look like you’re dying.”

“It _tastes_ like I’m dying,” Aran coughed after another swig. “Ugh.” Tristan snorted loudly in the midst of his laughter and the sound was so inelegant and unexpected that it set Aran off on a stream of wild laughter of his own. They refilled the cups when they emptied. Then did it again. Then again.

“I still don’t feel anything,” Tristan frowned after the third full cup. 

“I feel nauseous.” Aran tried to rub his tongue off on the back of his arm. “Maybe people who like being drunk are just people who like feeling sick.”

“I doubt it.”

“It tastes like hatred,” Aran pushed the cup away, half-finished, “I can’t. It’s gross. I tried.” He pushed to his feet, fully intending to go to the service cart to search for any remaining biscuits… and froze. The room dipped and spun. “Tris?”

“What?”

He pushed his fingers against his forehead and it felt squishy. “I think… something is wrong.”

Tristan peered up at him curiously. 

“I feel like that time I ran into a tree.” Aran blinked. “I think I need my glasses.”

“Where’d you put them?”

“Um… somewhere?”

Tristan rolled his eyes, going to look for his satchel and swayed slightly. “Oh.” He frowned hard, thoughtfully. “Oh.”

“What?”

“This is the thing.”

“I can’t see straight.”

“Yeah, I think that’s part of it.” He looked at his hands, “It’s like my fingers are going farther than I am.”

“Like a mage? It makes you into a mage?”

“Or it just makes you feel like a mage.”

“Oh.” Aran squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”

“‘Cause… otherwise… everyone would be mages.” Tristan’s lips trembled on a laugh, “Like… a whole world of just mages.”

“That would be… so much magic,” Aran snorted, covered his mouth. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

“Patrick says I sound like a donkey.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you this, Aran, for… a while...” Tristan walked over to him and put his hands on Aran’s shoulders. “Your brother is a tool.”

Aran snorted loudly, eyes watering, “Ha… what?”

“He’s a tool. He’s a dick. He’s really fucking annoying.”

Aran burst out laughing, shaking in Tristan’s grip. “ _What_?”

“I said he’s a dumb fuck.” Tristan grinned as Aran descended into helpless guffaws and snorts. “He’s trash. He smells weird. He’s… he’s… ‘a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality’.” 

Aran’s whole face had gone beet red, out to his ears, and he buried his forehead against Tristan’s shoulder as he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. 

“Are you okay?” Tristan asked the top of his head.

“I’m dying.”

“As long as it’s just that.”

Aran snorted again, his body convulsing in renewed laughter. “S-s-stop.” He rubbed his hands over his face, lifting his head, “No, but… no, but… _think…_! All the _magic_. Like… all of it, everywhere. Magic tables. Magic chairs.” He was muffled, talking into his hands. “Magic _spoons_!” For some inexplicable reason, that was enough for his knees to give out and Aran collapsed onto the settee in glee. “Magic sticks!”

“Those are staves,” Tristan informed him. “Or wands.”

Aran pulled his knees up to his face and rocked, cackling and honking.

“Aran.” Tristan sat on the settee next to him. “Aran.”

“What?”

“Aran.”

“What?”

“Your name is weird.”

“ _Your_ name is weird.”

“No, it sounds weird. Doesn’t it? Ae. Ren.”

“Run.”

“What?”

“It’s not Ren; it’s Run.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s _my_ name.”

“You walk around saying your name a lot?”

Aran squinted at him. 

“Cause if you do, that’s also weird.”

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me.”

“Have I ever made fun of you?”

Aran opened his mouth. Shut it. Quieted. “...no.” He sat up slowly, blinking. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making fun of me.”

Tristan peered at him curiously. 

Aran chewed his lip, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his khakis. 

“Who does?”

He looked up to find Tristan still concentrating on him. “What?”

“Who does?”

Aran shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“So someone.” Tristan frowned. “Other than Patrick?”

Aran looked away.

“At school?”

Aran rolled his eyes, rising unsteadily to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“Biscuits.”

“Okay.”

Aran procured the plate with the last biscuits and grabbed a couple packets of crisps. “My stomach feels like a box of crabs.”

Tristan shook, pressing his lips together, “What- what does a box of crabs feel like?”

“Crumbly,” Aran blew out his cheeks, feeling very serious. Maybe more serious than he’d ever felt. “Crawly? Or… like… cardboard with holes in it.” He sat down and held out his collection. “If cardboard was magic, would it have feelings? Because feelings come from the Fade, right? Feelings and dreams?”

Tristan blinked repeatedly and took the biscuits. After the first bite, he shut his eyes and sighed. “So good.”

“My skin feels weird.” Aran rubbed at the backs of his arms, folding in half, the crisps crinkling against his belly. 

“You should eat these.”

“I can’t move. I’m a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“You’re a lot of things sometimes.”

“Yes!”

“Your hair looks like a pillow.”

“I might be a pillow.”

Tristan wiggled a chocolate chip biscuit under his face. “Eat this.”

Aran took a bite of it without lifting his head. “S’good,” he mumbled.

“I know!”

“Tristan.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t feel good.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“I do.”

“You suck.” Aran turned his face to blink at his friend. “I’m sorry. You don’t suck. I don’t know why I said that. You’re the best… the best of… people.”

“Huh.”

“If there was an award for persondom, you should get it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re nice. To me. So it’s nice.” He buried his face in his knees. “Ah, stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“No- just- my face feels like foam.”

“Oh.” 

Aran lifted his head at the tap on his shoulder. “Huh?”

“We should drink more.”

“More?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Nope. Pillow sandwiches can’t.”

Tristan munched another biscuit. “Okay.” He scooted off the settee to the floor and drank the rest of Aran’s unfinished cup. “It’s like being longer than you are.”

“Uh-huh.” Aran blew at Tristan’s ear, making his hair ruffle around it. 

“Like a squid.”

“Or a kraken.”

“Yeah.”

“Magic kraken.” Aran blew again.

“Stop it.”

Aran stopped and instead poked at the floor next to his feet. “You don’t ever feel weird?”

“I feel like a squid.”

“No, I mean, like… not normal.”

“What’s normal?”

“Like other people.”

“Wouldn’t it be weird to feel like other people instead of yourself?”

Aran pulled at the toes of his socks. “Yeah. But that would be nice. Quieter.”

“It’s plenty quiet.”

“Tristan?”

Tristan refilled the cup and drank again. 

“Thank you for being my friend.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

“Okay.”

Aran carefully stood up and retreated to the washroom to empty the contents of his stomach. Flushed. Stumbled to the sink and stared at the mirror. At his face. Flushed. Patchwork splotches of red in a blurry face. He ran the tap and stuck his face under the water. Rubbed his face all over and stood up straight to blink the water from his eyes. Cried, watching the tears join the water from the tap. Feeling the heat melt to cool. It was a relief. Not as much as the other thing he’d found, the sharp and cold that made the fullness ease away, but it was close. He hiccuped, splashing more water on his face and eased out into Tristan’s room again.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Aran bit his lip, making his way back to the table and took the cup from Tristan’s hands, gulping the rest of the mostly full cup and gagging, passing it back.

“You said no more.”

“I know.”

“Don’t throw up again.”

“Okay.” Aran looked at the side of his face, then looked out the window. “Crisps?”

“Biscuits.”

“Okay.” He wiggled his fingers in front of his face. “Do you ever think about colors? Like… how they make you feel things? And how words mean what they mean? Like… how do we know what they mean? _Water_. How does everyone know what water is? And when I think of water, do you think of the same water? Or different water? Or is all water the same water because it’s the same word? But we just think it’s different? Because it shapes different in our heads? But it’s really the same thing?”

“...What?”

“When I say water, do you think of my water or your water?”

“Your face is wet.”

“I threw up.”

“On your _face_?”

“No.” Aran sighed loudly, “You're not listening.”

“Water.”

He blinked, flushing. “Oh.”

“You’re so red.”

“I’m a tomato.” Aran pressed his hands to his face, “Tomatoes are hot.”

Tristan laughed.

“I think I have a fever.”

“You’re not good at this.”

“Or am I _better_?” Aran’s eyes widened, “I’m better at being drunk than you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m definitely am.” He crossed his eyes, “Wait. What did I say?” 

“You said tomatoes are hot and you own water.”

“What?!”

Tristan shrugged. 

“You know what I don’t get is- what I don’t think is- why does everyone have to get all amazed over Agnella De Fiorino all of a sudden just because she’s gone lumpy? Why does the lumpiness matter? What does that have to do with the weather?” He frowned deeply, “It doesn’t make sense. Because last year, everyone was mean to her because she couldn’t say ‘watermelon’ right and now she’s got the things and she- she’s suddenly she’s like… Andraste or something. And even when she’s wrong, they’re like - no, it’s fine. You know? What is the deal with jubblies?” He poked at the engraved edge of the table, “It just looks like they hurt, flapping around.”

“What?!”

“It’s just- there’s so much I don’t understand about the world.” Aran itched the side of his nose. “And the library is really hard to search… for- you know - the important things. And people don’t talk about the things that matter so you have to guess but what if you guess wrong and then it’s all weird. So you’re stuck just… not knowing things you should because everyone else seems to and it’s just… annoying.” 

“You talk a lot.”

“How are you supposed to know! How do you know when is too much? Is there a sign I miss? Is it a number of syllables? Or like… how long it takes to think of the thing? Does that count? Because I think all the time, so does that mean I can’t talk because I’m using up all the space or the countdown with the thinking part? But if I just talk then I end up talking more - like now - and then that’s too much too. Everything is too much. I am. Too much.” 

“It’s not too much. It’s just a lot.”

“Oh.” Aran pulled at his socks again. “Wanna see if I can still do a cartwheel?”

“Don’t break anything.”

“I won’t.” Aran rose to his feet and wobbled. “I don’t think my legs work.”

“Sit down then.”

He collapsed back to the floor. He watched the ceiling spin until it stopped. “I feel very strange.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No. I usually feel strange. Like… different.” He prodded at his cheeks. “Or like… like there’s an ocean in a basket.”

“What?”

“Like there’s an ocean in a basket,” he repeated. “All… leaking everywhere.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t feel like you’re leaking?”

“...I don’t know.”

“What happens if it all leaks out?”

“All what?”

“All the me.”

Tristan squinted at him. “If you leak out of a basket?”

“Yeah.”

“Then… you won’t be in a basket anymore?”

Aran sighed. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“...Why are you in a basket? What is happening?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get out of the basket.” Aran squealed as Tristan took hold of his knees and shook him. “Out. Out of the basket. Out.”

“Stop!” Aran laughed, kicking at him and ended up with his legs pinned, wriggling on the floor like a worm. “Aaaaah. I’m stuck!”

“Out of it!”

“Ah! Oh, no! Basket monster!”

“Go go go!”

“I’m trying! I’m stuck!”

The knock at the door had them both freezing in place. “Master Tristan? Is everything all right?”

Aran sputtered laughter into his hands.

“We’re fine!”

“No rough-housing indoors, sir.”

“We _know_!”

“Very well, sir. Dinner will be served within the hour.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, “We’re not coming down!”

“As you wish, sir. Shall we bring a pair of plates up to you and your guest?”

“Fine!”

“Very good, sir.”

“So annoying,” Tristan muttered under his breath.

Aran crawled across the floor to the window seat and curled there, pressing his cheek to the glass. “It’s nice.”

“Oh, yeah, great.”

“ _Sir_.”

Tristan flattened himself on the floor. 

“If you could be any animal, what would it be?”

“A horse.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Aran tucked his knees up under his chin. “Do you ever wonder what happened to Finnegan Salci?”

“Circle.”

“Oh.” Aran squinted at Tristan, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He crossed his toes over each other, then switched feet, switched again. “Do you ever wish you were a mage?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Why? Do you?”

“Sometimes.” Aran traced the embroidery on the window seat's pillow, watching the clouds move across the gray sky. “Just… I don’t know, so you know where you fit. Or… what you’re supposed to do.”

“Do?”

Aran shrugged. “‘Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?’” He glanced up as Tristan wandered over to look out the window.

“Where?”

Aran pointed and they both were still, watching as the whetted blade of the moon sliced through the afternoon clouds and disappeared again. 

“‘It is life in slow motion, it's the heart in reverse, it's a hope-and-a-half: too much and too little at once. It's a train that suddenly stops with no station around, and we can hear the cricket, and, leaning out the carriage door, we vainly contemplate a wind we feel that stirs the blooming meadows, the meadows made imaginary by this stop.’”

“I don’t know that one,” Aran chewed his lip. “It’s good.”

“Yeah,” Tristan frowned out the window. “It’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the Moon, by Percy Bysshe Shelley  
> The Wait, by Rainer Maria Rilke


	2. peaches and cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Aran is 12 and Tristan is 13.

[Tristan]

_ Council 15:35 _

The day was uncomfortably sunny, the air thick and hot as it glided down his throat, so hot he thought his lungs would melt and leak out of his nose. The beach was filled with people at that time of day, and the sound of the waves crashing against the sand was almost drowned out by chatter and loud music from the many bars that lined the shore. Tristan squinted against the bright sunlight, bringing his open palm over his eyes to scan the wide expanse of sand and umbrellas and people coming and going.

“We should have just gone to the Cove,” Aran grumbled beside him, fanning himself with his hand. He was leaning against a tree trunk, catching his breath under the thin shade. His brow was glistening with sweat, and damp coppery curls clung to the back of his neck. His golden freckles stood out against the ruddy flush of his cheeks.

“I know,” Tristan sighed, letting his arm fall. “But I promised Tilly. She was really upset when we took off the other day and didn’t tell her.”

“Was she?”

“Yeah. Said we’re not Terrible T’s anymore, that we never include her in anything.”

“That’s not true.” Aran brushed the back of his hand over his forehead, frowning. “The three of us hang out all the time. I think your sister’s being a little dramatic.”

Tristan shrugged. “Maybe. But I do think we’ve been leaving her out quite a bit lately.”

“That’s because she’s always out with her friends!”

“Mmm. There’s that, yes. Oh, well. We’re here now, better get the most out of it.” He braced himself as he took a step forward, leaving the relative coolness of the shade. Aran groaned when he pushed off the tree trunk and followed him. 

“I’m going to die. I can feel it. It’s awful.”

“You’ll be fine. Here.” Tristan took his bottle of water out of his pack and handed it to him. “Take this. It’s still cold from the fridge.”

“Thank the Maker,” he sighed, pressing it against his forehead. He peered at Tristan under the bottle. “So where is she?”

“I’m not sure… said she would be around here somewhere. That must be her,” he said, picking his buzzing phone out of his pocket. And stared at it.

“Well? Where is she?”

“That’s…” Tristan squinted at the screen. “That’s not Tilly.”

“Who is it then?”

“Statton.”

“Statton? Angela Statton?” Aran blinked at him. “Since when does she text you?”

“A little while. She sits behind me at Orlesian.” Tristan swiped the screen, reading the text. “Says she wants my help with an exercise.”

Aran made a confused grimace. “Weird.”

“Why?”

“I’m pretty sure she got an A on the last test. If anything, you should be asking for her help, not the other way round.”

“I don’t need help with Orlesian,” Tristan rolled his eyes. “I do just fine at it.”

“That’s ‘cause I helped you with the end of term paper.”

“Shut up.” He slid his phone back in his pocket, resuming his walk. The phone was suddenly an uncomfortable weight against his thigh. He forced a small spring to his step, tilting his nose up slightly as he added, “Cardew says she wants to kiss me.”

“What?” Aran’s steps halted for a moment, then quickened as he caught up to him. “What does carpface know about it?” 

Tristan lifted a shoulder. “He’s dating Hallewell. He said that she said that Statton said she wants to kiss me.”

Aran scrunched his nose. “That’s a lot of ‘said’ in one sentence.”

“Yeah.” Tristan idly scratched his cheek. “Yeah. But I believe him. Why would he lie to me? And why would Hallewell lie?”

“Dunno.” Aran rolled the bottle over his brow, then screwed the cap open to take a sip. “Do you want to kiss her?”

“Hallewell?”

“No, you numpty. Statton.”

“Oh.” Tristan stood for a moment, gazing over at the beach in thought. “Uh…” He frowned as he realised he had no ready answer. The question filled him with unease. Statton was nice, he guessed. She smiled a lot. And talked a lot. That maybe wasn’t so nice. He worried the inside of his lip. “Her hair smells good. Like jasmine flowers. And her hands are pretty. I like the way she does her nails.”

“Huh.” Aran hastened ahead to stand under the shade of another tree, then turned around to look at him. “Her hair is… fine. Not sure about her nails. Haven’t noticed.” He itched the side of his nose. “So does that mean you want to kiss her?”

Tristan stared at him for a long moment. Aran’s eyes were wide, watching him carefully. Bright blue, flecks of gold catching the sunlight, framed by dark blonde eyelashes. Unruly curls shifting with the breeze, brushing his cheeks. His hair smelt good, too. Better than Statton’s. Not better- different. Familiar and warm and earthy, the scent of it drifting towards him with the wind. It was instinctual when Tristan leaned forward ever so slightly to take a breath of it. Yes, he decided. He did smell good. If someone’s hair smelt good, was that reason enough to kiss them?

He fell back again, crossing his arms before his chest. Aran’s gaze on him felt like pinpricks on his skin. Why did he want to know so badly, anyway? Tristan scoffed, looking away. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. What’s it to you?”

“What’s gotten up your arse all of a sudden?”

“Nothing’s up my-” Tristan glared at him. “You’re annoying. You ask too many questions.”

“And you never answer any,” Aran replied, his eyes widening dramatically. “You’re annoying, too.” He brought the bottle up to his lips to drink, narrowing his eyes.

Without thinking, Tristan wrapped his arm around Aran’s neck, pulling him in a headlock. Aran gasped as cold water spilled all over the front of his tee shirt. “Oy- get off-” he grunted, trying to twist out of his grasp. 

Tristan laughed as Aran struggled in his hold. “Is this annoying, too? Hm? Is it?”

“Aye, it is-” Aran growled, elbowing him hard on his sides. Tristan let him go, chuckling as Aran shoved him away, red faced and sweaty. “You’re annoying, aye. And you stink. You smell like dog. I bet carpface was messing with you because he knew it would go to your head.” He rolled his eyes, rearranging his backpack on his shoulder. “Thinking girls would want to kiss you. I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole if I were Statton,” he mumbled, kicking the dirt. 

“Well, you sure aren’t Statton, and she  _ does _ want to kiss me,” Tristan said indignantly. “She doesn’t think I smell like dog, that’s for certain.”

Aran shrugged, grinning wickedly. “Perhaps she just likes the smell of dog.”

Tristan made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. “You’re just jealous she doesn’t want to kiss  _ you _ ,” he spat, walking away. Irritation flared, just beneath his skin. Aran was his best mate, his brother, but by the Maker, Tristan wanted to wring his neck sometimes. The way he always dismissed everything so casually was enough to make his temper flare on the best of days, let alone now that he was hot and sweaty, and with Statton pestering him. Tristan would just leave him there, on the promenade, and go find Tilly on his own. Aran could go wherever he pleased. With someone who smelt better, he thought acidly.

He hadn’t gone five steps before something catapulted on him so hard that he almost lost his footing. Aran’s breath puffed next to his ear as he clambered onto his back, his cold, drenched tee shirt chilling him to the bone where it touched his skin. 

“What the-” he started, yet his sentence was cut short when Aran’s forehead dropped on his shoulder.

“It’s hot,” he groaned. “I’m tired. Can’t walk.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “You were walking just fine a moment before.”

“Yeah, but now I can’t. You have to carry me.” He cracked open one eye to peer sideways at him. “You owe me, for dragging me here.”

“I didn’t drag you anywhere,” Tristan grumbled, even as he started walking again. Aran’s hold on his shoulders tightened, and Tristan’s stomach fluttered just a little when his legs wrapped around his middle. He hooked his elbows under his knees, propping him up. “Don’t mind my smell much now, do you?” he mumbled petulantly.

“I might just be used to it. I probably smell the same, anyway.” His friend shrugged, smiling. “So Statton likes you, eh?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“What are you going to do? Will you text her back?” 

Tristan didn’t answer, staring straight ahead of them instead. He was never much for talking about girls, not like his other friends did. Every break, Johnston would tell them this and that, show them pictures he’d found on the Internet. Tristan had seen enough photos of nameless women without clothes on to last him a lifetime. Johnston had made out with two girls, he’d said, Moretti and another one that lived close to their summer estate in Bolverno.  _ She smelt like peaches and cream, like she’d just come out of the shower, _ he would say, and grin.  _ When she took her shirt off, I forgot my own name. _

Tristan should have been interested in that, he supposed. He should have been listening to his friend’s stories with glittering eyes, like Cardew and Penwith did. Yet his mind always slipped away, a fish that refused to be caught. He often thought of Aran then, of what he would say if he were there. He thought of his laugh, of the flush on his cheeks and his neck when they played and wrestled, the way he rolled his eyes when Tristan relayed Johnston’s stories sometimes, those that were particularly lewd, or those of the girls he’d kissed. 

He imagined what it would be like if he kissed Aran. The momentary shock in his eyes, the wonder. Tristan fancied he could see him blush in his mind's eye, look at him a little confused, then shrug the whole thing off as if it were a joke. Perhaps it was. 

Tristan smiled despite himself, hauling them both across the beach. He imagined kissing him, just to watch him blush. It would be funny, he thought, if he kissed Aran. 


	3. give my life, if need be

**Aran**

_Council 15:35_

“Get it off! Get it off!” Aran scrubbed at his hair, dragging at the spiderwebs, shaking his hands to try to free them of the sticky threads of silk. “I hate spiders! I hate them! They’re in my hair!”

He could hear Tristan laughing down the tunnel ahead of him; he hadn’t heard him laugh since Tilly had climbed into the car with their mother to make the drive to the Circle a few hours to the south. 

A mage. Tilly was a _mage_. It should have been unbelievable, except… They’d seen the blizzard gathering around her. One minute they’d been fighting; Aran’s mouth had been full of dirt, his elbow still smarting from where he’d shredded it the day before, his fist making a really good solid crack against Tristan’s jaw- and the next they were both covered in snow, cowering and shivering on the ground while shards of ice whirled about them. 

Fucking strange.

Not that mages were strange. Aran’s sister Miranda was at the same Circle that Tilly had gone to; had been for years now. He’d watched her bring a colt back from the dead and then pass out in the mud. Mages were normal enough. Magic was normal enough. It was just… Tilly. She had been one of them, and then suddenly she wasn’t. 

She was still Tilly, but she was more. Different. Better because she could do amazing things. And worse because she was gone. 

Tristan hadn’t been taking that well. Aran was pretty sure that if he mentioned how much Miranda liked the Circle one more time, Tristan might actually make good on his promise to break his nose. So they’d focused on other things. They’d gotten locked onto solving the mystery they’d begun with Tilly weeks before. They’d found a secret passage from the wine cellar in the basement that had led… here. Into this… long, dirty, spider-infested hole. 

Aran shivered, searching the darkness ahead for the shine of Tristan’s torch. “Are you still there?” he asked softly, then shouted as Tristan leapt out from behind some kind of column with the torch lighting his chin from beneath and casting terrifying shadows across his face and the walls. “Right. I’m going home,” he breathed when he managed to catch his breath. He could still feel the webs sticking to his cheeks. 

“We just got here!”

“Yeah, and now we’ve seen it. It’s spiders and dark.” He crossed his arms and bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the sudden impulse to cry. He refused to cry in front of Tristan. Not over spiders nor jump scares. He’d never live that down. 

“We don’t know how far it goes or where to! What if it goes all the way out to the cove, like a smuggler’s tunnel? What if it leads to buried treasure?”

Aran wrinkled his nose. “It isn’t a smuggler’s tunnel unless your family were smugglers.”

“They might have been.”

“They were the law. What? Were they smuggling things from themselves?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Piss off.”

“You piss off. I’m going to see where this leads. If you want to run away from pure adventure, that’s up to you.”

“I’m not running away,” Aran snarled. 

“Then come on.”

Grumbling, Aran scrubbed his hands on his jeans and stalked past him into the dark, swearing as he walked straight into more sticky strands crisscrossing the unused passage. Spiders. Who needed spiders? Too many legs. Way too many eyes. You couldn’t eat them like crabs. Disgusting, furry, shivery bodies… 

“Check this!” 

Aran saw the light of Tristan’s torch bobbing on the walls as he ran ahead. He followed grudgingly, careful not to step through any more webs. Tristan was standing before a full plate armour that stood almost twice as tall as he. He turned to Aran, grinning. 

“Think I could climb into that?" 

“How? Where does it open?” Aran stepped closer. “Why is this even down here?”

“It belonged to Trenton Trevelyan the Third,” he replied, squinting at the small engraving at the armour’s base. “My great, great, great, great uncle. He fought in the Battle of Cumberland during the Fourth Blight. It’s said his sword weighed as much as a small child, and he often wielded it one handed.” His torch swung slowly around the small pocket in the corridor until it stopped at a large claymore hanging by the wall. “There it is!” He handed Aran the torch and ran to it. He stood up on his tiptoes to lift it from its hooks, grunting under the weight. “Come help me.”

“That’s huge!” He stretched up and gripped one of the sides of the engraved hilt, “On three?”

Tristan nodded, taking a breath. “One. Two. Three-“ They lifted it at the same time, Aran gripping the hilt and Tristan holding it from the edge of its scabbard. It was heavy, much heavier than it looked. They set it on the ground, then stared at it for a moment in awe. Tristan bent down, holding its hilt firmly before slowly sliding the blade out of its scabbard. Even after being in that crypt for Void knows how many years- ages, probably- the steel shone in the light of the torch as if it had been sharpened only the day before. 

“Heavy- very heavy-” Tristan grunted, gripping it with both hands to lift it. His cheeks were flushed, a slight sheen on his forehead. He heaved it up before him, but he only managed to get it a couple feet off the ground before its pointy edge dropped back down on the hard floor with a loud clang. 

“Ah, damn you,” Tristan huffed at it, a frown creasing his brow. “I wanted to fight you with it." 

“Maybe there’s smaller ones somewhere around here.” Aran leaned over, tracing the edge of the blade with his fingers. “It’s so shiny. Not as sharp as it looks.”

“Yeah?” Tristan squatted before the blade, his fingertips following the same path as Aran’s. “We could try sharpening it. Do you think there’s a whetstone somewhere in here?” He looked around him, squinting. “Maybe that way,” he said, nodding towards the end of the corridor. He huffed again as he tried to lift the sword to slide it back in the scabbard. “How can anyone lift this thing with just one hand?"

“Did you actually look at that armor? Your great what’s-his-what’s was huge! Do you think you’re going to get that big? Like some kind of crazy giant?”

Tristan quirked a brow as he stood up and puffed up his chest. “Why not? I have the same blood. I could be towering over you in a few years. You would have to crane your neck to look up at me. And I’d pat you on the head and tell you, ‘Fetch me my claymore, boy’.” He grinned. 

“I’m not fetching your claymore,” Aran snorted. “I’m not your squire, right. Fetch your own claymore.” 

“You _are_ my squire,” Tristan declared. “You could be. It’s the highest honour.” He flung his arm around Aran’s neck, pulling him against him. “Squire, young squire, tell me; whose armour is the shiniest of them all?"

“Yours, my laird, because you never fight in it!” he laughed, elbowing him. “Shinier than all the silverware!”

"Lies. Filthy lies. I am the first to ride to battle and the last to retreat. All minstrels in the land know this." He poked at Aran's cheek. "Has no one told you that it's a crime to lie against your liege lord? I should have you flogged for this."

Aran snorted. “Ah, sure, aye, flogged; you can try.” He smiled wide, “But I’ll have to tell your sister on you.”

Tristan’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I so would! She made me promise to tell her if you were mean to me again. I can’t break a promise to a mage, can I?” Aran grinned fiercely. 

Tristan gaped at him for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “Mean? When am I mean to you?” He poked Aran’s sides, his fingers digging deep into his stomach. “When am I mean? Huh? Am I mean now? Am I?”

“Aye! And flogging! Flogging is mean!” Aran wiggled, cackling, scampering back away from him. “No flogging! No tickling!” 

“Then you should be a proper squire and fetch me my sword,” Tristan laughed, pushing his hair away from his face. He bent down and picked up the sword, sliding it back into its scabbard with a groan. “Right. Let’s put this back where it belongs and find some proper swords for me to whip your arse with.”

“Not very honorable to whip the arse of the unarmed,” Aran grunted, levying the enormous sword against his belly as they struggled to get it back to its place on the wall. “Was it this high before?” he whined. 

“I- think so-“ Tristan grunted as he heaved the claymore back to its place. He took a step back, panting. “Fucking Void. Great uncle Trenton definitely knew how to lift. Right. So.” He picked up the torch and pointed it towards the far end of the corridor. Cobwebs danced and shimmered when the light hit them. “I believe we should go this way."

“You go ahead,” Aran squinted into the gloom. Dark. He hated the dark. And spiders. He could still feel the webs on him from before. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from checking for them. “First to ride into battle, right?”

The light from the torch bounced along the walls as Tristan tilted it this way and that. "I wonder what else is stored in here," he said, his voice echoing around them when he strode ahead. "What if we find some secret passage? I heard Addington say once that there are underground tunnels leading all the way to Ostwick proper. We still own property there, although we never really go. My grandfather liked it better here, and Father after him. Oh! What if," he turned around, grinning at Aran, "we find a passage that leads all the way to Ostwick castle? Can you imagine? Popping up right in the middle of a group tour. I bet they would all die when they saw us. Oh! What if we put on armour and take swords with us? That should really scare them." He chuckled under his breath as he walked down the long, dark tunnel. "We could make a name for ourselves. 'The ghosts of Ostwick castle'. Just think of the tales they would make up about us. A brave, young knight that fell in battle, and his loyal squire."

Aran fell into grumbles as he reached the end of his spiel, jogging to catch up. “I’m not your feckin’ squire,” he grunted, then relented, “But we should totally find the passage and then hang out and rattle chains behind walls.” He grinned. “People would wet themselves. How long do you think it would take to walk from here to there?”

“I don’t know,” Tristan shrugged. “A day? Maybe? We should bring snacks with us next time we come. I’ll ask Nelly to make us some ginger biscuits. I won’t tell her we’ll go down here though, because then she’ll tell Addington, and Addington will drag me away by the ear and lock me in my room. Well. Not really. He’ll just be very, very cross with me. Very cross.” He frowned for a moment, then shot Aran a mischievous smirk. “We should totally look for chains. What if we find a torture chamber?” He brought the torch under his chin, grinning. “What if the ghosts of the tortured find us and haunt us forever?"

“Mother Hannah says there’s no such thing as ghosts. Only spirits that get confused,” Aran tried not to let the sudden fear that gripped him show in his face or his voice. “Or demons. There _could_ be demons lurking down here.”

"Demons only try to possess mages, don’t they?” Tristan dropped the light of the torch from his face, his expression instantly growing somber. “Good thing we didn’t come here with Tilly, then.” He shifted a little on his feet, avoiding Aran’s gaze, then turned around to resume his walk. “If a demon comes, I’ll protect you. I just need to find a good sword."

“Or two,” Aran agreed. “What if there are cave spiders?” he asked, biting his lip. “Ma says there are huuuge spiders in the Deep Roads. Bigger than a horse.”

“Then we ride them!” Tristan punched him playfully on the shoulder, laughing. “Imagine riding a spider to battle instead of a horse. No one would come near you.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t come near me either!” He stuck his tongue out in protest. “Ugh. Disgusting. Almost as disgusting as riding a Tristan into battle!” He jumped onto Tristan’s back and pointed forward, “Charge forth and slay the gruesome spidren folk, my faithful Tristan!”

“Slay spiders _and_ carry you into battle?” Tristan groaned, shifting Aran higher on his back. “Right. Hold my torch.” He took a step back and leaned forward. “Okay. Ready. Steady. Go, go, go!” His footsteps echoed all around them as he lunged ahead and ran down the corridor. Aran yelped when he almost fell off, then tightened his hold on his shoulders. “Better get ready to fight some spiders!” Tristan laughed, breathless, gaining speed. 

“I’ll shoot them with my laser torch!” Aran cackled, swinging the torch wildly above their heads. “None shall survive! All shall yield!”

“Abandon all hope, ye who reside here!” Tristan paused to catch his breath and readjust Aran’s legs around his waist, then charged straight ahead once more. The sound of their wild laughter and Tristan’s footfalls bounced back at them tenfold, until it sounded like a real army was storming the catacombs’ dark corridors. When they finally reached the far wall, Tristan stopped, panting like a hound in the summer heat. “I think,” he wheezed, “that we scared away all the demons and spiders that live here.”

Aran hopped down from his back and looked around, guiding the torch to illuminate the corners. Webbed, but no massive lurking menaces. None that he could see, anyway. “You’re a good steed. Maybe you should offer to be the horse in the next riding competition. You’ve got the nose for it.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, snatching the torch from Aran’s hand. “I’m a warhorse. I don’t do riding competitions.” He sniffed dismissively before brushing past him. “You’re a good rider, though. I might let you ride on my back again some time. If you promise to fetch me my claymore. Boy.” He grinned at him as he walked ahead. A carved wooden staff was leaning against the wall; Tristan picked it up, swinging at imagined enemies as he went. They walked for a while in the semi-darkness, until they found themselves at a crossroads of sorts. Tristan stopped, looking this way and that. “Okay. Right or left?”

“Try sniffing the air for signs of a battle.” Aran dropped to a knee in the dust, looking around, “I see signs of a skirmish in the distant past. Pirates and soldiers, swarming over each other like starving rats.”

Tristan chuckled, kneeling beside him. “See this?” He pointed at the dust. “This is where someone tried to drag away a chest filled with treasure. I think he was hauling it from…” He looked towards the left. “This way.” He sprung to his feet, extending a hand to Aran. 

Aran clasped his hand and ran forward, “Quick! Before he gets away! For the laird!”

“For me!” Tristan laughed, running after him. The corridor widened for a few paces, then bent and twisted. They both stopped dead in their tracks when they found themselves before a stout oaken door. The door handle was covered in rust, which was in turn covered in dust. Tristan took a step forward, squinting at the strange carvings on the wood. “What in the Void is this?”

“Oh, I know these! Well, sort of. They’re called glyphs.” Aran snagged the torch back from him, leaning closer and blowing at the dust. “Ma studies them. I guess they’re magic sometimes. But other times, they’re just words. Like the inscriptions on the stones in the fields. Guides and notes for travellers.” 

“Oh.” Tristan sniffed, then sneezed. He brushed his nose with the back of his hand, which only seemed to bring about a new bout of sneezing. “Blighted dust,” he croaked, turning away. “What do those glyphs say?”

“Uh…” Aran glanced up at his watering eyes and covered his mouth to hide a sly smile, “They say, ‘Breathe of these ancient ashes and be cursed for all time.’”

“What?” Tristan gaped at him in horror. “These were _ashes?_ You blew ashes in my face?” His brows gathered in a frown as he leaned forward, almost close enough for their noses to touch. “If I’m cursed for all time, then you should be cursed with me.” He swiped some of the dust with his finger and brushed it against Aran’s nose. “There! Now you’re cursed, too!”

“Again with the meanness,” Aran rubbed at his face. “I’m going to have to start keeping a list. Oh, wait, here it says, ‘the curse is non-transferable.’”

Tristan scoffed. “Do you take me for a fool? Wait. Don’t answer that.” He narrowed his eyes at him as he reached for the door handle. “I’ll make a list of every time you’ve been a filthy liar and a cheating cheater. Strike one: I get all the loot we find for myself. Strike two: I leave you to fend for yourself against spiders and demons and curses. Strike three…” He paused for a moment, considering. “Dunno. I’ll think about it.” The handle whined in protest when Tristan twisted it, but the door didn’t budge. “Hmm. I think it’s stuck.”

“ _You’re_ stuck.” Aran pushed at the door. “Probably rusted, right? We could try ramming it.”

Tristan nodded, taking a step back. “Okay. Put your back to it. Ready? On three. One, two-”

They charged forward, their shoulders crashing against the dense wood. It took three tries before the door was flung open, raising a cloud of dust in its wake. 

“Is that…” Tristan blinked when the dust finally finally settled. He tilted his head to the side, squinting at the large, flat stone that lay in the center of the room. “What _is_ that?”

“It’s a rock.” Aran glanced at him sideways. “Did you hit your head?”

“I know it is a rock, o wise Elder One,” Tristan groaned, rolling his eyes. “What is a rock doing in the catacombs?”

“Uh… it’s all carved out of rock, right? Maybe this one was too heavy to be carted out.” He jogged across the room and climbed up onto it, looking around. “It’s like a dais. Maybe it’s where the pirate king’s throne room was.”

“Maybe.” Tristan circled it cautiously, studying the markings at its base. “It may have been an execution block or something. Or-” His eyes flicked up at him enthusiastically. “I’ve heard of kingdoms of old having stones like these, and they used them every time a new king was crowned. Or if they wanted to settle a dispute, or seal a promise, they would do it before a stone. They were said to be the eyes and ears of the gods. Or the Maker. Or something.” He frowned, then squatted down to trace one of the shapes with his finger. “What do these say? Can you read them?” 

“S’faint, right?” Aran flattened himself out on the stone, peering at the shapes. “Okay - that one, I know that. That’s the ‘reed’. That’s used for all kinds of things. Usually promises and the like. You bend people, don’t break them, that kind of thing. And this one with the three lines, that’s ‘heather’. That’s like- land, earth, family, all sorts of things. And the circle’s ‘morning glory’ - that’s usually a reference to the Maker, or the sun god. There’s some debate.”

“Hmm.” Tristan brushed his chin with his knuckles thoughtfully. “I wonder what it all means. I think we can be sure that it was used for promises and oaths and the like. Oh!” He beamed at him. “What if it was used for knighting people? Maybe my ancestors kept it somewhere and made their vassals swear loyalty to them. Maybe,” he brought his face close to Aran’s, “they made them promise they wouldn’t lie. Or cheat.” He squinted at him.

Aran squinted back at him, “Maybe they all had to promise not to do those things. And all their crap impulses got filtered down to you.”

“I don’t lie. Not ever.” He pulled back, puffing up his chest. “My knight’s honour forbids it. You, on the other hand, young squire, are always lying through your teeth. Perhaps I should knight you as well, so you would stop.”

“I think you and I have different definitions of lying,” Aran muttered skeptically, squinting at the drawings. “If you take pictures of these, I can have Ma look at them. It’s sort of her thing, right?”

Tristan hummed in agreement. "We could get some pictures. But your mum has to promise not to tell Addington. He'll kill me if he finds out I've been snooping around. Or he'll tell my mum and she'll kill me." 

“Ma’s no snitch.”

He slid his phone out of his pocket, swiping at the screen. "Hold the light steady on them." Aran did as he was told while Tristan snapped some pictures, tilting the phone this way and that. "Damn it," he huffed, wrinkling his nose. "The pictures are all blurry. I don't think I can get them clear enough. Perhaps we should try tracing them on paper."

“Do you _have_ paper?” Aran asked archly, then sighed and shoved his backpack off, dragging his journal out and a chewed nub of a pencil. “ _You_ hold the torch.” He sank onto the floor, cross-legged and began sketching. “How is this down here without anyone knowing, do you think?” He looked up, wide-eyed, “What if Addington _does_ know about it? What if he’s a wizard and he does secret incantations on this rock?”

Tristan stared back at him for a moment, then tossed his head back and laughed. And laughed. The light of the torch danced so much, it was impossible to see the markings. “Addington! A mage! How I would have loved to see that. It might explain how he always moves about so silently. And how he always knows when something has been moved. Perhaps he’s casting spells as we speak. Think he has a wand or a staff hidden somewhere?” 

“Aye, up his arse,” Aran grinned.

Tristan grinned back at him, rubbing his eyes with his knuckle. “We could wait down here and see if he ever shows up. Oh! What if he has the staff and his spellbooks hidden somewhere around here?” And with that he stood up, taking the torch with him to light up the far end of the room.

“Damn it, Tris!” Aran squinted in the vague shadowy gloom, tracing the inscriptions and writing them down by feel. “I think maybe you need the same meds they’ve put me on.”

“Why do you say that?” His absent tone made it clear that he had heard very little of what Aran had said. He was inspecting a long and narrow desk, his torch flickering over a pair of candlesticks, an old tome, a collection of smaller stones that seemed made of the same rock as the large one in the middle of the room. The light of the torch moved slowly down the length of the desk before it stopped abruptly. Tristan’s gasp of surprise echoed in the wide room. “Check this out!” The object let out a metallic hiss when he picked it up off the desk and lifted it before him. “A sword!”

“Your whole family really has a thing for swords, eh? They leave them everywhere!” Aran abandoned his writing, hurrying over to the desk and it’s huge leather-bound book. “Maybe he does keep his spell book down here…”

“Called it.” Tristan moved closer, peering over Aran’s shoulder. “So? What spells does the old man keep?”

“It’s… weird,” Aran snatched the torch from the desk. “Look, that’s old Marchtongue, those are dwarven runes, there’s the glyphs from before. So many different- It’s like a… Wait, so that’s-“ He turned the brittle pages, hugging the torch between his cheek and shoulder. “It’s like the same things are being translated, maybe? Old stuff. See- they’ve got the dwarven rune for ‘bond’ or ‘deal’ right next to the glyph for ‘reed’. It’s- I mean, it doesn’t look like Miri’s grimoire. It looks more like our family bible. Or yours. Record keeping. See all these names after?”

"Hmm." Tristan squinted at the long list of names on the page. It went on and on, the ink more faded the further back they went. "Oh! I recognise this one," he said, pointing at a row of scribbles. "Sir Maren Elderton. He used to be one of my great, great, great grandfather's sworn knights, and captain of his guard. He went with him to the Battle of Hasmal when the Marches held back that Tevinter invasion. A Tevinter magister's golem attacked them on the battlefield, and Elderton cut it down! All on his own! And then he tried to kill the magister but he was too injured and he died. My great, great, great grandfather cut through a division to retrieve his body, and took an arrow to the knee in the process. Elderton was one of his favourite knights, and closest friends. When they brought his body back, he was buried as a hero. Nelly told me that story. She said my grandfather told her about it, when she was first hired to look after my father and uncle Vestrit. Ages ago. I do think there's a portrait of my great, great, great grandfather in the ballroom. He's always sitting down in all his portraits, because his knee hurt when he stood up for too long. Tilly told me once that I look a little like him. He had the most impressive moustache. Do you think I could grow a moustache like that when I'm older?"

“I think you could grow a mustache like the Captain if you wanted.” Aran grinned sweetly. “And probably grow like the Captain as well.”

"Who? Uncle Vestrit?" Tristan snorted and elbowed him. "While I'm with you? I think not. You're always picking at the food on my plates." 

“Who doesn’t eat pie crust? It’s the best part.”

"Maker, no. It's the absolute worst part. Thick and tough in places and soft and doughy in others- yuck." He shuddered dramatically, then nodded at the book. "Does it say anything else? Any spells? Perhaps there's something there to turn you into a toad."

“Why? So we can match?” Aran turned the pages. “It’s logs, I think. Of the people who… I don’t know. Died, maybe? Or served your family? Died serving your family?” He frowned. “I don’t know that many glyphs yet.”

"It's not when they died." Tristan took the book from his hands, narrowing his eyes at the logs. "See the date next to Elderton's name? It says 7:67 Storm. The Battle of Hasmal was in 7:81 Storm, and that's when he died. This must be… hmm. Certainly not his date of birth. The date he took his vows as a knight? Perhaps this documents all the people that once swore fealty to the Trevelyans." He glanced at the stone behind him. "They probably did it on this stone."

“Ooooh! Aye! I’ve heard of these! There’s one in Orlais somewhere, I think? But they don’t let anyone near it.” Aran jogged in place as excitement lit his veins. “Brilliant. Oathstones. Oooh, so rare, so cool!” 

“It is. Very cool.” Tristan’s eyes glittered with enthusiasm when he looked at the stone, then at him. “Wanna try it out?”

“Who’d be dumb enough to swear fealty to you?”

Tristan rolled his eyes and punched him on the shoulder. “Lots of people would want to swear fealty to me. You’re dumb for not wanting to.” He let the book fall closed and picked up the sword. “And a coward to boot. I’ll swear fealty to myself, I don’t need you.”

“That’s even dumber. Obviously, you’d swear fealty to yourself. Who wouldn’t?” He cocked his head to the side, staring at the stone. “What do I get for it?”

“Uh… the honour of being a sworn knight for the Trevelyan family? I don’t understand your question.”

“I wouldn’t be swearing to your family, would I? It’d be to you. So. No more shoving my head in troughs.” Aran ticked off his fingers. “No more stealing my rolls at lunch. No more blaming me for things you spill-“

“Ah, in that case, then,” Tristan hefted the sword in his hands, “as my sworn knight, you’re not allowed to talk back to me. No tickling me or poking me with pens. No writing on my face with said pens while I’m sleeping. And you’re not allowed to call me names. You’ll be calling me ‘my liege’ or ‘my lord’ or ‘my laird’, or the Maker will smite you where you stand. Oh. One more thing.” He grinned. “You take full responsibility for everything _you_ spill. I don’t spill anything. Ever.”

“Feck off, then, try swearing to yourself, mate. The Maker will love you for that, sure.”

“Ugh, _fine_.” Tristan rolled his eyes again. “No stealing you fecking rolls at lunch. No shoving you in troughs. Can I still shove you in mud puddles, though?”

“Only if I can,” Aran held out his hand. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Tristan clasped his hand firmly. “Now get your arse on that stone.”

“Hold on, tadger, there’s words you have to-“ He hefted the tome in his arms and staggered with it to the stone, sitting down heavily. “Hold the torch.”

“I said, no calling of names,” Tristan grumbled as did what he was told, shedding light on the yellow and dusty pages. 

“Right.” Aran nibbled at his lip, squinting at the pages. “So- it looks like you have to- here- Can you read that?”

Tristan accepted the tome, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Most of it is in Marchtongue, but I think I can make it out.” He cleared his throat. “Okay. So first, the knight asks the lord to allow him to swear fealty. The knight must say, 'I, knight’s name, offer myself as a vassal to, lord’s name. I promise on my faith that I will in the future be loyal to, lord’s name, never cause him harm, and observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit. I will shield his back and keep his counsel and give my life if need be, until the Maker takes me from this plane.” He squinted as he read on. “And the lord replies with, ‘I, lord’s name, accept thee as my loyal vassal, in the name of the Maker. You shall always find meat and ale at my table, and warmth by my hearth. I would ask no sacrifice or service that might bring you dishonor. This, I solemnly swear. Arise.” He quirked a brow at Aran. “That sounds simple enough."

“Sure. I guess the ‘arise’ means I kneel, eh?” Aran squinted at the sword. “Don’t lop my head off, right?”

Tristan swung the blade in an arc, grinning. “I’ll do my best. Ready?” 

Aran grunted, wrinkling his nose, then looked back at the book. “Right. So. I guess- Can I swear fealty to you? Or… it should be ‘may I’, huh?” 

“Hmm.” Tristan tilted his head to the side, as if considering. “Doesn’t sound like you want it very much. You have to sound like you really, _really_ want it for it to work.”

“May I please, please, please swear fealty to you, please?” Aran asked, furrowing his brow. 

“That’s somewhat better. But you haven’t addressed me properly, so it still doesn’t count.”

“You’re a massive pain in the ass, my laird,” he sniffed. 

“But you still want to swear fealty to me. Right?”

“Only to get you to shut up about me being your feckin’ squire,” he sniffed, crossing his arms. “So. May I? Mother laird?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes at him. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know.” He turned away, busying himself with swinging at imagined enemies. “I don’t need a knight. Or a squire. I’m perfectly fine by myself.”

“Full of shite you are. You’d stab yourself trying to spear a sausage for breakfast.” Aran lifted his chin. “You need someone to watch your back. If I squint really hard I can see it through your ego.”

Tristan sniffed, the blade hissing as it cut through the air. “I don’t need anyone to watch my back. Not you, not anyone. I’m fine on my own.” He swung again, more quickly this time, lunging at his invisible opponent. “I’m perfectly fine. Perfectly, perfectly fine. Fine. Fine.”

“Dinnae be daft, ye whingy punk.” Aran huffed, resettling on his knees and putting his hand over his heart, “Please, Tris, will you let me be your knight? You’ve saved my arse enough times. I’d surely like to repay the kindness. I really would. Plus, I’m a good rider. So - even better, aye?”

Tristan sniffed again. He let his sword arm drop and stood still for a moment, his back to Aran. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and turned around. “This is stupid,” he said. His gaze was fixed on his shoes where he kicked the dusty floor. “If you swear fealty to me, I should swear fealty to you. Otherwise it’s not fair. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Fine, but me first since I’m already here.” Aran grinned. “Even though I’m not a laird. I guess you can swear fealty to my… dunno. Something.”

“I’m not a laird either.” Tristan frowned, still staring at his shoes. “I’m Tristan. And you’re Aran. That’s what we should swear to.”

“Aye, good then.” He itched the side of his nose. “Are you goin’ to feckin’ let me or do I have to ask a-bloody-gain?”

Tristan worried his lip for a couple breaths, then looked up at him under his furrowed brows. “Alright,” he nodded. “I accept your offer.” He straightened with a sharp breath and walked up to him. The sharpened edges of the sword gleamed in the feeble light of the torch; there were runes carved along its length, too. Tristan stood stiffly, his expression serious as he held the blade before him. “You may say the oath.”

Aran cleared his throat with a nod. “Aye. So. I, Aran, offer myself as a-” he glanced at the book, “-vassal to Tristan. I promise, on my faith, that I’ll - in the future - be loyal to Tristan, to never cause him harm-” He frowned as the dais warmed beneath his knees and the sword seemed to catch the light weirdly. “-and observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit-” No, the sword was definitely glowing. “What in the nine hells.”

Tristan blinked at the sword, then at him. “It’s very warm.” He gingerly touched the blade, then instantly recoiled. “Yes. Definitely warm. Is it normal for swords to get this warm?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who’s into swords.”

“Right. Yeah. I don’t think it’s normal, no.” He worried his lip, glancing down at the book. “What- what should we do? Do you think this- does it actually work?”

Aran chewed his lip. “I don’t know, Tris, but the rock is warm.” He rubbed his nose. “Can we just agree to both be knights?”

“Without the stone, you mean? Or- should I say the oath, too?”

“I don’t-” Aran squinted at the glowing sword. “I think we should leave the weird magic stuff alone, yeah?”

“Okay. Okay.” Tristan let the sword fall and took a step back. “It’s still a little warm.”

“Do you still want to?”

Tristan hesitated. “Not if you don’t.”

Aran frowned at the book, “I just don’t see where it says what it does. Or why it glows. Why is it glowing?” He glanced up, worrying his lip, “Do you… uh… feel weird?”

"It's-" Tristan paused for a second. "It's like… something's gripping me? From the inside? But it's very faint. Could just be that I'm hungry." He wrinkled his nose. "My hand's a little tingly. Do you feel weird?"

“No- I mean, aye, but-” He tugged at his fingers one by one. “It runs in families. What if you’re turning into one?”

"Turning into what? A stone?"

“A _mage_ ,” Aran whispered, feeling as though he might be the one turning into stone. First Tilly, now Tristan? Tristan- He couldn’t- He couldn’t go away, too. 

Tristan looked at his hand, turning it this way and that. "I… I don't think so," he said. "It wasn't like that when Tilly… you know." He ran his fingers through his hair, then glanced at the sword in his other hand. "I think perhaps I should put this back where I found it."

“You… you can knight me, Tris, I don’t want you to go to the Circle. You can stay here and I’ll protect you.”

Tristan pressed his lips, a determined frown creasing his brow. "I won't go to the Circle. I'll protect you, too." The tip of the sword was warm when it touched Aran's shoulder. He took a deep breath. "I, Tristan, accept thee as my loyal vassal, in the name of the Maker. You shall always find meat and ale at my table-" He stopped short when a soft humming noise started sounding from the stone as more runes lit up. "And- and warmth at my hearth-" The stone was definitely vibrating under Aran's knees now. "Aran," he said, his voice trembling, "something's going on. What's going on?"

“Magic,” Aran whispered, shivering. “It’s alive. The whole feckin’ room’s alive.” And it was. Lights flickering, waking, in soft patterns across the floor and the ceiling, trails leading to the stone he knelt on. His stomach felt like it was doing flips. Warm. Warmer than summer days. His lungs felt heavy, as though the air was weighted. “Fuck, what if it _is_ Addington’s? What if it’s some kind of curse? Or-“

"I don't know. I- I don't know-" Tristan stared at Aran, his face taking on a sickly pallor. He let out a sharp breath, then stepped on the stone, kneeling beside Aran. "If you get cursed, then I'll get cursed, too." He thrust the sword hilt in Aran's hand, curling his fingers over it. "I, Tristan, offer myself as a vassal to Aran. I promise, on my faith, that I'll, in the future, be loyal to Aran, to never cause him harm, and observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit. I will- I will-" he shook his head, cursing, "-fuck- how does it go after?"

Aran held Tristan’s hand on the sword, staring at him as the sweat trickled down his back, “I will shield his back and keep his counsel and… give my life if need be, until the Maker takes me from this plane.” He swallowed. “It’s hot. It’s really hot. Isn’t it?”

"It is. It-" He pressed his eyes shut, his fingers trembling under Aran's. The words came out of him in a rush. "I will shield his back and- and give my life if need be, until the Maker takes me from this plane." He opened his eyes, staring at Aran. "Now say it. Quick, I don't know if I can hold on to this much longer."

“I, Aran-“ Burning. Was it burning them? “-accept thee as my vassal in the name of the Maker-“ He couldn’t breathe. Too hot. Too much. Too loud. “You’ll always- always have meat at my table- fuck, Tris, it really hurts-“

"Shit, shit, shit-" Tristan let go of the sword, dropping it on the floor with a clang. The stone underneath them vibrated again, stronger this time, then stopped abruptly. The light dimmed slowly, the runes stopped glowing. That strange hum that came from the stone faded away. The room was perfectly still once more. Only their panting breaths and the sweat that clung to their brows remained as evidence that something had, indeed, happened. 

Tristan stared at Aran for a long moment, his bottom lip trembling. "Are-" he swallowed. "Are we cursed now?"

“Aye. I think so.”

"Are we going to die?"

“Ah- aye. I think so.” He flexed his hand. Not burned, thank the Maker. “I mean- I don't know. The book probably says.”

"I don't want to die." He bit his lip. "Should we tell Addington? Maybe he'll know what to do."

“You said you didn’t want to tell him.”

"I know," Tristan huffed, "I know, but we weren't about to die when I said we shouldn't tell him." He blinked at him. "Do you- uh, do you feel any different?"

“I feel… buzzy?” Aran squinted at him. “And warm? And hungry. Are you hungry?”

Tristan just stared at him for a moment, as if dazed, then nodded. "Yes. I think- I would eat." He stood up slowly and stepped off the stone, then bent down to pick up the sword. "It's cold now," he whispered as he walked back to the long table. He placed it carefully back where he found it and took a step back. His brows were gathered in a frown when he turned around. "I don't think rituals like that are supposed to make you hungry. Are they? Did we do something wrong?"

“Maybe?” Aran squinted at the book. His hands were shaking, so he flattened them on the dais. Cool to the touch. Stone. Just stone. Damp, dark stone. He bit his lip, lifting his gaze only when he was sure he wasn’t going to start blubbering like a baby. “I don’t- I’m not sure what we’re supposed to- I mean, can we bring the book up? To the light? Maybe there’s something in it about how to remove a curse.”

Tristan nodded, coming to sit next to him on the stone. He opened the book in his lap, handing Aran the torch. "Okay. Let's see." His frown deepened in concentration as he flipped the pages, scanning the centuries old writing on them. "Right. So... it doesn't say anything about a curse. Or how one feels after the ritual. All it says is... 'It is the highest honour for a Knight to pledge himself thus to his lord, and to forge a lifelong bond with him'." His eyes widened in shock. "A bond? A b-" He reread the passage under his breath, his lips moving silently. "And here- here it says that, 'During the taking of the oath, it is expected that the Knight should feel a moment of intense connection with his lord, so it is recommended for the oath-taker to cleanse himself before the pledge, so that he may not sully his lord with- with-'" He paused, squinting. "What do these words mean? Inappropriate thoughts? Or- I don't know." Tristan bit his lip, glancing at Aran. "So- are we bonded now? Did- did you feel a connection with me? While you were saying the words?" His eyes widened again. "Can you hear my thoughts?"

“I have a headache and I’m hungry.” Aran rubbed his temple with his knuckles. “I always know what you’re thinking anyway. Did you hear mine?” He leaned in, “That’s inadequate, right? Not inappropriate?” 

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" Tristan squinted. "I can always tell what you're thinking, too. You're very bad at hiding your thoughts." 

“So are you.”

Tristan scoffed and looked back at the book, tilting his head to the side. "Inadequate thoughts? That doesn't make sense. But- anyway. I don't-" He bit his lip. "I didn't hear your thoughts. Or feel a… connection. What's that supposed to feel like anyway? Unless…" He narrowed his eyes at Aran. "Do you think I'm hungry because you're hungry?"

“I think we’re both hungry because we only ate pancakes before we came down here.” Aran scratched the side of his nose, “If I were hungry the way you’re hungry, I’d probably just eat you. Have you seen yourself eat? It’s scary.”

Tristan leaned forward until their noses almost touched, widening his eyes dramatically. "I might just eat you then. Bet you taste like a toad." He squinted. "I've heard that toads taste like chicken when you cook them. So you'll probably taste alright. In any case," he sniffed, edging back, "my fencing coach said I need to put on some muscle. That's why I eat more than you."

“You eat more than me because you’re part goat.” There. 

"If I'm a goat, you're a sheep," Tristan said, idly flipping a page. "Goats are smarter than sheep. Everyone knows that."

At least he wasn’t panicking any more. They couldn’t both be freaking out. Aran bit his tongue, staring at the Marchtongue inscriptions. Was it ‘inappropriate’? No… the accent there made it- The headache was making it hard to think and his glasses were dusty no matter how many times he tried to clean them. Probably because his shirt was dusty too. “Can we take the book upstairs and get something to eat?”

Tristan glanced at him, then back at the book. "I don't… I'm not sure we're supposed to move anything out of here. Nelly always says there are ghosts in those crypts- what if we take something of theirs and they follow us to take it back?"

“Aye, she says that about the crypts. But she doesn’t know about this place, does she? So she can’t know about ghosts here. Which means there aren’t any, right?”

"I…" Tristan made a confused grimace. "What if the ghosts she doesn't know about are worse? What if- what if there are demons or-" He closed the book and took a breath. "I think… I think we should leave this here and- maybe forget about this whole thing. It probably didn't work anyway." 

Aran pulled his lip, watching him. “Right. Okay.” But he didn’t want to. He wanted to read the thing. He wanted to learn the symbols. He wanted to understand what had happened- what- Something. Something had happened. Hadn’t it? Something… strange and otherworldly and wasn’t that- But Tristan was already carting the tome back to the desk to put it back where they’d found it. Aran tucked his journal back into his pack and slung it over his shoulders. “Chips?”

Tristan set the book down, carefully aligning it with the sword, at the exact same spot he had picked it up from. He gazed at it for a breath before walking back to Aran. "Sure. Yeah." He worried the inside of his lip as he looked around the room, now dark save for the light of the torch falling on the wall behind them. "Ready to leave?"

No, he wanted to say. No- I want to understand- Aran hoisted his bag on his shoulders. “Aye. Chips and chess?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find oftachancer or Tumblr [here](https://oftachancer.tumblr.com/) and Johaerys [here](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi! :)


	4. Wolf Pack*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Tristan is 14 and Aran is 13.
> 
> Graphic depictions of violence ahead.

**Tristan**

_Council 15:36_

The smoke from the cigarette stung his eyes as Tristan took a long drag. It burned its way down his throat, filling his lungs. The school grounds were all but empty, his friends’ chatter echoing around the open space. He thought of telling them to shut it, to stop making so much noise- the day was over and almost everyone was gone, but teachers sometimes lingered well after the school closed. Madame Dupris wouldn’t appreciate it much if she saw them huddled there and smoking in the corner past the main gates. But Johnston was going off on one of his usual tangents, about this girl that liked him, and her boyfriend that looked at him funny, and the blokes from the softball team that were all jealous because softball was, and always would be, the ‘lamest sport’- as he put it.

“Polo matches are where all the birds go,” he said with a grin, puffing out a stream of smoke. “They see you riding a horse and they lose their bloody minds."

Cardew nodded along, smirking. They were all in the polo team together. Tristan was offense, Cardew was center, Johnston team leader. Tristan had noticed the girls that had been flocking to every one of their matches lately, but never paid them much thought; he’d assumed they were all there to watch the game. The Cross was a small place, and there wasn’t much else to do in the winter, but his friends would never believe that. He didn’t mind much, either way. Johnston and Cardew always played better when there were girls around.

“Reyes said she'll go out with me next time we win,” Cardew said, leaning against the wall. 

Johnston scoffed. “She says that every game, mate. Last I heard, she was kissing Montanerre behind the gym.”

“Montanerre’s a prick. I bet he hasn’t pulled half the birds he says he has.” Cardew rolled his eyes, pouting. He and Montanerre had been in a fierce competition over who was the heartthrob of third form that year- so far, the tall, brunette Antivan was winning. “You get all your gossip from Hallewell, and you know most of what she says is bollocks.”

“Oh?” Johnston tilted his head to the side, his lips curled in his usual amused smirk. “So when she said you were crying at her feet when she dumped your arse last year, that was bollocks, too?”

“She didn’t _dump_ me,” Cardew spat. He tossed his cigarette on the ground, then ground it into a paste with his heel. “I dumped _her_ , and then she pestered me for a month after. Had to turn off my phone every night so she wouldn’t wake me up with all her texts, begging me to go out with her again.”

“I can vouch for that,” Penwith chimed in from his seat atop one of the old, worn out benches that lined the pavement. He had on his wide, peacemaking smile, which made his cheeks look even rounder and rosier than they already were, and was fiddling with one of his gym padlocks that had broken earlier. Fred was not in the polo team with them- too tall and gangly to ever be a decent rider, but he’d always been a fierce swimmer. He and Tristan had known each other ever since he could remember, even before that. There were still pictures of the two of them in kindergarten in one of his desk drawers, wearing the colourful Satinalia sweaters his nan had knitted for them. “You shouldn’t take Hallewell’s word for it- you know how upset she was after their breakup. Isn’t it better to trust what your friends tell you?” he amiably asked Johnston, then coughed as the other boy blew the smoke from his cigarette in his direction. “Put that blasted thing out, will you? I cannot believe your coach lets you puff away like a chimney every day.”

“He doesn’t,” Johnston grinned. “But even if he knew, I doubt he’d say anything. Not when our team’s had a streak like this. Three wins in a month. D’you know that?”

“I suppose I did not. You haven’t mentioned it in the past- what? Thirty minutes? My memory, as you know, is rather short,” he said, coughing as he waved the smoke away. 

“That it is, old pal. That it is.” Johnston threw his arm over Penwith’s shoulders, then turned to Tristan. “Oi. Where’s squirt?”

Tristan shrugged and looked over his shoulder, past the gates. Late. Aran was never late- Not like this. Not knowing Tristan had a practice to get to. There was a ball of tension in Tristan’s stomach, one that had been there for a while and was steadily getting tighter. An insistent irritation; a tug. It didn’t make sense to him. He’d been fine a moment before. Yet now, it felt like that tension wouldn’t go away until Aran appeared around the corner.

He tossed his cigarette on the ground and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll go look for him.” Aran had probably found some new book in the library and lost track of time. Maker, he was a nerd sometimes. 

“Coming with,” Cardew said, pushing off the wall. “Been waiting here so long, I need to stretch out my legs.”

The library was closed already for the day, which meant his plan to drag Aran out of it wasn’t going anywhere. The sound of laughter reached him from around the side of the building and he followed it, curious. 

“Give it back-“ Aran said clearly, though his voice was higher than normal. High and clipped, the way it had been when the bough had broken under his feet while they were climbing one of the tall trees the summer before. 

“How can you even carry this thing?” Another laugh. Tristan exchanged a wary look with Cardew, then rounded the corner in time to see a couple of the boys from a higher form tossing a backpack back and forth between them as Aran shook, red-faced, hands fisted at his sides. 

“Give it back,“ he repeated. Squinting. His glasses were broken on the ground at his feet. 

“Just gonna help you out,” Klein - fifth form - smiled broadly, dumping the contents of the backpack on the ground before he tossed the empty cloth sack back at Aran. “See. Now you can carry it.”

Tristan didn’t realise when he started running. “Leave him the fuck alone!” he growled before catapulting on Klein, shoving him back hard enough to crack his head against the wall. The older boy hissed in pain, but didn’t waste a moment before swinging for him. He missed him by a wide margin, eyes bleary and unfocused. He swung again, but it was Tristan’s fist that collided with his cheek, sending his head snapping to the side. “You bloody-“ His pulse was a wild roar in his ears, every muscle in his body tense, ready to snap. He couldn’t feel his knuckles anymore as they landed on Klein, over and over; his head, his stomach, his arms when he brought them up to shield his face. “I’ll fucking kill you-“

Strong hands caught him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. He growled like a wild beast, struggling to free himself, but Klein’s friend was strong like an ox. Tristan kicked and grunted, watching Klein straighten as if in slow motion, wiping the blood that ran down his nose. “You’ll pay for that, you stupid wanker,” he hissed, advancing threateningly towards him, pushing his sleeves up. 

Tristan should have been afraid, he knew. He should have been paralysed with fear, but all he could feel was the endless waves of rage that rushed through him, the blood that pumped wildly in his temples, his vision that had gone bright red, and that tug in his gut that was steadily getting stronger. Tristan would kill him. He would murder him and his friend, and shove their ugly faces in the dirt. He would-

Pain, white hot and blinding; then the world was tipped on its head. There was blood on his tongue and the inside of his nose burned, like when he and Aran went swimming and he inhaled salt water by accident. He gasped, wincing, leaning against Klein’s friend without wanting to- his legs wouldn’t obey him. The sound of Klein’s laugh came as if from far away. 

_Aran,_ Tristan thought through his haze, and his stomach dropped. Where the Void was Aran?

“Get off-” he mumbled, kicking blindly, “leave him-”

The roar was high and wild like an angry cat, then a body flew, arms flailing. 

“The fuck-“ Part laugh, part surprise, part pain. Klein twisted, swatting at the figure gripping his back like a rabid koala. “Get the fuck off of me, runt.”

“Piss off,” Aran hissed. “Piss off and get away from him!” His shout ended in a startled yelp as he was tossed unceremoniously to the ground.

“Don’t you bloody touch him!” Tristan growled, struggling, kicking Klein’s friend with the back of his heels. He twisted and writhed in his grip, but it was no use. He snarled at Klein, baring his teeth. “If you touch him, I’ll-“

A hollow thump behind him, then the boy’s hold on him finally loosened. Tristan shoved him back, stumbling as he turned around to see Cardew holding one of Aran’s hard bound books. His expression was one of quiet and deadly determination; he didn’t even blink as he raised the book over his head, then brought it down hard against the side of the other boy’s head. Klein’s friend groaned, tripping over his own legs and falling flat on the ground. 

Cardew turned to Klein, his lips widening in a grin. He looked just a tad psychotic. “Want some of this?” he asked him tightly, rearranging his grip on the book. 

Klein took a step back. “Woah. No need for that, mate.”

“No?” Cardew moved closer, stepping over the fallen boy’s legs. “You sure?" 

Tristan blinked hard to clear his vision, then pushed his shirt sleeves up as he stepped before Aran, standing protectively over him. His head was pounding and his nose burnt every time he breathed, but he would be damned if he didn’t get at least a few more good licks in.

“Can’t be worth it-“ Reedy, winded. Aran crawled to his knees slowly. “Can it?”

“Stay back,” Tristan hissed, not taking his eyes off Klein. The other boy was backing away slowly, his mouth twisted in a snarl.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Klein said.

“ _You_ don’t know who _you’re_ messing with!” Tristan spat, seething with anger. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides to stop them from trembling. He took a step forward, when Cardew caught his arm.

“My friend here’s got a point, you know,” he calmly told Klein. “Better take your mate and run along now.” He smiled again, that terrifying grin of his. “Or would you rather we smash your face, too?”

Klein glared at them both, a thin stream of blood running down his lip. He grabbed his friend’s arm, pulling him up. “See you around,” he said threateningly as he dragged his friend back. 

“We’ll count on it.” Cardew watched them backing away, his hold on the book relaxing only when they had disappeared around the corner. 

Tristan turned around as soon as they were gone, helping Aran to his feet. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Where did they hit you?” His heart was pummeling his chest as he anxiously searched his face. There was no blood, no bruises that he could see. Only his glasses that were missing, lying broken on the ground nearby. A fresh surge of anger rushed through him, half blinding him. “They’ll pay for this,” he growled. His mouth tasted like blood and acid, bitter and metallic. “I swear to the Maker, I’ll kill them next time I see them.”

“It’s okay.” Aran mumbled, flushed. “It’s not a big deal.” He gathered his books, carefully tucking them back into his backpack and pulling out a tiny first aid kit. “Here. You’re bleeding. You shouldn’t be bleeding.”

Tristan tongued the cut on his lip, wincing. “I’m fine,” he grunted, wiping his chin. His hand came away bloody. “I’m alright.”

“You should get that looked at,” Cardew said, handing Aran his book. “Looks nasty.”

“I just said I’m fine.” Tristan sniffed, and instantly regretted it. His nose was still sore. He could only hope it wouldn’t swell. “I’m not coming to practice tonight,” he declared. “I’m taking Aran home. Tell the coach I’m sick or something.”

“You don’t have to take me home,” Aran muttered. “You should see a doctor for your nose.”

“I am taking you home.” Tristan walked up to him, taking Aran’s backpack from his hands and swinging it over his shoulder. “My nose needs an ice-pack, not a doctor. And you need to go home, and I’m not leaving you alone. Not with these pricks about.”

“He’s right. They’re probably still skulking outside the gates, waiting for you,” Cardew said, picking up his own backpack. “Johnston and I can walk with you to the bridge, it’s on our way to the grounds.”

Aran hung his head, twisting a little piece of plastic between his hands, making cracking noises, and holding it out to Tristan with a handful of gauze. The thin plastic was cold to the touch. 

Tristan hissed when he pressed it against his nose, but clamped his jaw shut. He nodded stiffly to Cardew. "Thanks, Miles. Really."

Cardew just shrugged, walking back towards the gates. "These arseholes have been acting very high and mighty lately. They needed to be taken down a notch." He glanced at them both over his shoulder. "You coming, or what?"

“His name is Miles?” Aran asked. Of what remained of his glasses, one lens was cracked in two rather than splintered, and he was trying to tape the pieces together to use them as a monocle. “He doesn’t seem like a Miles.”

Tristan groaned, pressing a fresh ice pack on his face. Addington and Nelly had made as big a fuss as would have been expected when they saw them walking in, bleeding and dusty, their clothes rumpled. At least his mother was still at work, or they would never have heard the end of it.

“No one ever really calls him that.” Tristan pushed himself up, wincing as he brought the glass of water Addington had left by his bedside to his lips. His head was still sore, but the painkiller Nelly had given him was slowly working its magic. He felt heavy, bone-weary, like he had been hauling stones all day. “He doesn’t like his name much.” He propped himself up on his elbow, watching Aran struggle with his glasses. A spark of anger flickered through his haze, but he tiredly brushed it away. It left bitterness in its wake, an odd sense of hopelessness. There wasn’t much else they could do right now, after all, yet the injustice of it all still lay thick in his stomach. “We should go to the shops tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I’ll get you a new pair." 

“I can make this work.” Aran grimaced, abandoning the glasses to flop down beside Tristan. “Not much point in getting a new pair. They’ll just break the next ones. It’ll be worse now.” He wrinkled his nose, tucking his knees to his chin, watching him. “It already is worse. You're hurt.”

“You’re hurt, too.” Tristan’s fingers ran carefully over the light bruises that were starting to darken on Aran’s wrist. He frowned. “You should have told me about it. You should have told me they’ve been after you. I would have come to pick you up from the library. You shouldn’t be walking about on your own. We’ll go to school together tomorrow, and you’ll come hang out with me and the lads for lunch. And then I’ll drop you off to your class. I have training in the afternoon so I might not be back by the time you’re finished, but Cardew could come with you to the library. His last class is Chemistry, I think- the labs aren’t too far. I’m sure he won’t mind.” Tristan lay down on his side, holding his gaze. “I won’t let them hurt you again. If they do, I’ll kill them. I promise you.” There was a fire slowly crackling inside him, eating away at any fear he might have felt. He wasn’t scared of Klein or his mates. He would fight them all, if it meant keeping Aran safe. 

“I don’t want you to fight them again.” He was frowning, tugging down the sleeve of the sweatshirt he’d borrowed and chewing on its edges. “There’s no point. If I’d just given them what they wanted to start with, it would have been fine. I pissed them off by refusing. And now they’re going to be madder. They’re Patrick’s friends. I know what they’re like. I don’t want you to fight them. They’re mean when they’re pissed. Just let me handle it.”

“If you give them what they want, they just keep doing it,” Tristan insisted. “I know their kind. You have to fight back, or they’ll never stop. Show them that they have more to lose than to gain by pestering you.” He chewed on his lip, and instantly regretted it when he tasted blood from the fresh cut. He frowned, dabbing at it with his tongue. “If they always see you with me or one of the boys, they’ll think twice about getting in your way. They’ll lose interest eventually.” 

Patrick, Aran’s older brother, and his group of friends had been steadily building a name for themselves as bullies, meddlers, troublemakers. One would have thought that, as his older brother, Patrick should have been protecting him. Yet all he did was pour oil on the fire, encouraging his mates to seek Aran out, to push him around. Tristan’s temper blazed the more he thought about it. If Patrick so much as tried anything again, if anyone so much as touched him, Tristan would- 

He took a deep breath, pushing his anger down once more. “I’m not leaving you alone again,” he said resolutely. “And we’re going to the shops to get you glasses tomorrow. You can’t do anything with those now.”

“Sure, I can. Look-“ Aran wedged the taped lens between his cheek and brow, sticking his tongue out. “Good look, aye? Like a pirate.”

Tristan snorted, despite himself. Ridiculous. He was ridiculous, with his tongue sticking out like that and his taped-together monocle. He was also small and slender and defenceless, and those boys had hurt him. Tristan’s heart thumped painfully when he remembered Klein and his friend laughing at him, jerking him around. His smile melted away as he pushed himself up to his elbow, reaching out to take Aran's hand in his. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he said solemnly. He held Aran’s gaze levelly, even as his eyes burnt like live coals under his lids. “You hear me? Not ever.”

“You can’t stop them, Tris,” Aran huffed, laying next to him, letting the lens fall. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to. How’s your nose?”

“My nose is _fine_. Maker.” Tristan huffed and rolled his eyes. “Why do you keep saying I can’t stop them? We stopped them today, didn’t we? They ran with their tails between their legs. They will again, if they try anything."

“ _They_ might. But there’s more of them. You can’t protect me from everyone and everything. I’m supposed to be _your_ knight, right?” He wrinkled his nose. “As much as you’re mine. I’m not weak. I’m small. There’s a difference.”

“I never said you’re weak. You’re not.” Tristan gazed at him earnestly. “I’m your knight, too, you said it yourself. I can’t just stand idly by as these pricks bully you. These things, you have to nip them in the bud. You can’t take them on on your own. No one can.” He let out a slow exhale through his nose. “We’re stronger when we’re together. You know that."

“I know.” Aran lay back, fidgeting. His fingers on the lens. His fingers in Tristan’s. His toes flexing in socks too big for him, crinkling the cotton. “I should have. I-“ he frowned. “I wanted to deal with it. To prove I could.”

“You’ve nothing to prove to anyone. Least of all to me. Patrick and his mates- they need to be taught a lesson. I’ll kick their arses as many times as I have to. I’m not scared of them. You shouldn’t be either.” Tristan let out a tremulous breath. He shifted closer, squeezing Aran’s hand. “They can’t beat us if we stick together,” he whispered. “Nothing can."

“Nothing can,” he repeated softly. “Aye. Okay.” He chewed on his upper lip. “I don’t want you to have to fight all the time, though. So. Something else. Okay? We can figure out something else.” 

“We will,” Tristan said, nodding. “You’ll hang out with me and the lads. We’ll stick together like- like a pack. Like a wolf pack. Safety in numbers. And if Patrick’s being an ass- you’ll just sneak out and come to mine. Spend the night here. Don’t face him on your own. It’s not worth it. He’s a coward and a bully. Don’t make it easy for him.” 

“Aye,” Aran nodded. “Aye. Alright.” He tucked his head down, resting it on Tristan’s chest. “I’ll be difficult. I’m good at that.”

"You are." Tristan smiled, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. They often lay like that when it was just the two of them, huddled under the blankets or their pillow forts. They would bend their heads close, foreheads touching, and talk in soft whispers until the break of dawn- or they'd just hold each other until sleep took them. His mates would laugh if they knew, but Tristan didn't care. Aran felt like home to him, his smell as familiar as his own. Even when he was away, Tristan could sense him, as if he were there, could smell him on his clothes, in his space. It was instinctual, the way animals knew each other by scent. And it was always easier to fall asleep while listening to his even breathing, easier still when it warmed the side of his neck, his cheek. Nothing and no one could hurt them, not when they were together. "I love that you are."

“Okay,” Aran sighed, slinging an arm over his stomach. “Okay. Good.” He was quiet for a while, breathing slow and deep under Tristan’s arm, so long Tristan thought he’d fallen asleep. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Tristan hummed, pressing his cheek against the top of Aran’s head. “You’ve nothing to thank me for. You would have done the same for me. You did."

“Tried.”

“Yeah. Both of us. If it weren’t for Cardew, my arse would have been kicked, too.” He frowned. It irked him to admit it, but there it was. He owed Cardew now, probably, but he didn’t mind much. It was a small price to pay for sending Klein running. “It’ll be better now,” he whispered, his hold on Aran tightening just a little. His bones felt like twigs as they pressed against him. “You’ll see."

“Okay,” he said again. Trust. Seamless. And the little touch of doubt that had remained faded away. “Aye. Alright. It will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find oftachancer or Tumblr [here](https://oftachancer.tumblr.com/) and Johaerys [here](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi! :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. fireflies and angel wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Aran is 15 and Tristan is 16.

**Aran**

_Council 15:37_

There were floating candles on the surface of the pond, pinpoints of light reflecting the evening sky. Aran sat on the ledge of the gazebo, leaning back against its walls, feet dangling over the mirror-smooth water. Up at the house and through the gardens, music ebbed and flowed. Strings and piano whispering their plaintive melodies as people danced and mingled and chatted, celebrating the day’s achievements at the Grand Tourney and sharing their expectations for the following day. Somewhere in the house, Tristan was being gladhanded by strangers over his showing at the jumping trials that morning. Deservedly. He’d been brilliant, placing first in his bracket and second overall, all strong and prideful. The _look_ in his eyes as he rode… 

Aran rubbed the back of his neck as a shiver ran through him despite the warmth of the evening. As though he were capable of anything and so bloody pleased about that fact… It had sent things tightening all through Aran’s core, uncomfortably. Other places, too. 

Then again, a breeze could set him off these days, he reminded himself, watching the candles float and bob. 

Tristan’s legs, though. The way they flexed as he posted from the saddle. The straight line of his spine. The ferocity of his smile. 

“Aran!” 

Crap. Shit. Fuck. He tugged his knees up to his chin as Josephine leaned over the low railing from the inside of the gazebo. He flushed at her bright smile, returning it nervously. “Hey, Josie!”

“What a day!” she gasped, settling in on the bench behind him. 

“Yeah.” He winced as his voice cracked halfway through the word. He cleared his throat. “Yes. It was.” She wasn’t laughing; she was a good friend. He glanced up to see her offering her cup of punch and smiled gratefully, gulping and passing it back. “Thanks.”

“The candles are pretty,” she said, leaning against the rail to watch them. “Like stars.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” he grinned and listened to her giggle in reply. 

“We’re alike, I think. Don’t you?”

He thought about her penchant for ruffles and things that glittered. How they could set each other off laughing with absolutely no reason. The time the summer before when he’d found her crying under the eaves. “Yeah, ish.” 

“Would you…” she began, sounding suddenly breathless, “would you want to go out?” 

“We are out,” he wrinkled his nose, confused. 

“Oh, yes, I suppose we are.” She rested her chin on her hands, “I meant… Would you like to go out, sometime, with me?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth; they still felt too strange, too smooth, without his braces. “I don’t know; it’s supposed to rain the next few days. Where did you want to go?” 

“Ottilie said you know your way through the maze.”

He chewed his lip, “Yeah.”

“Maybe you can take me through it?”

Aran nodded. “Sure.”

She flushed, happy in an instant. “Great.” She touched his shoulder. “Let’s go now.”

“ _Now-_ now?” he asked, very aware of the still uncomfortable level of alert inside his hand-me-down slacks. They were far too long for him, benefit of having been Sam’s before they were his. His mother had pinned the legs up and every movement set the safety pins rubbing against his ankles. The waist was too wide, too, held up by suspenders beneath his jacket. Maybe she wouldn’t notice? No, it was Josie. She noticed everything. “It’s… the candles, though.”

“They’ll still be here.”

He hugged his knees, swallowing nervously. “Uh… no, thank you.”

“Please! It’s an adventure! Don’t you like adventures?”

“Sure.” 

“So let’s go!”

“To the maze?”

“Yes. I’ve heard it’s a-maze-ing.”

Aran snorted, grinning, and the pun was almost enough to convince him. But the last time he’d been in there only a few days before, he’d become transfixed with Tristan’s back. With his sweat, like wings, dampening his shirt in the summer heat. He bit his tongue hard as his body tightened further. _Stop, stop, stop._ No, he was not getting up any time soon. “I’d rather just sit here.”

“May I join you then?”

Aran stared at her. “Uh…” But she was already climbing carefully over the railing to sit beside him on the gazebo’s ledge. They were of a height. Too close. He hugged his knees tighter. “Sure,” he answered belatedly. Not much choice now. “How’s the party?”

“Oh, the music is so wonderful!” she enthused. “And there are those little shrimp cakes again this year. Lady Trevelyan really knows how to throw a ball.”

“Aye.” His voice dropped inexplicably into his toes on the syllable. And he saw her lips twitch. “No laughing. Gazebo rules.”

“It’s sweet. You’re growing up.”

“Piss off.”

She smiled, turning to him. “We’re all growing up. It’s good. It’s normal.”

“Right. You get prettier and my throat develops a mind of its own.” His throat and the rest of him as well. It was like trying to govern a sea of cats, just moving through his day. 

“You think I’m pretty?” she asked softly.

He frowned. “What? Of course you are.” It was dark, but he was pretty sure her cheeks were darkening. “Not that that’s all that matters,” he added hastily, remembering Winnie’s angst over their father calling her just that word. Demeaning, she’d snarled, fingers snapping. “You’re smart. Really clever. Sorry.”

She leaned towards him and he could smell the soap on her skin and the perfume waves that she’d walked through in the house that had attached themselves to her. Then her lips were on his and Aran froze, blinking. _What? Why?_ Was all he could think for a long series of ineffable seconds. He’d never felt anyone’s lips on his own, except his mother’s and his sisters’, and this… wasn’t that different. Soft and pleasant. 

He squinted when she ducked back. Was he supposed to do something? Say something? “Uh… thank you?”

She beamed at him. “I really like you.”

“Good?” He itched the side of his nose. “I like you, too.” Maybe she wanted to be his sister, too. She could have just asked. 

“Maybe, if we go to the maze, you can show me how much.” 

Did he not already? “Jo-“

Then her lips were on his again and he sat there, hugging his knees, trying to figure out why this was happening. She made a kind of sighing sound and her fingers touched his hair lightly. That was nice. He liked when she played with his hair. And when Tilly did. And Miranda and Winnie. It was soothing. Not like Tristan’s fingers when they barely brushed his ear and sent heat shuttling down his spine. He frowned, and she drew back. 

“You’re right,” she breathed. _Was he?_ he wondered. _Right about what?_ “Let me know when you want to go to the maze? I’ll be in the ballroom, okay?” she whispered and then fled up into the gazebo and across the lawn. He watched her go, her skirt flapping in the evening breeze. 

What the actual Void? 

On the plus side, he seemed to have gained some modicum of control over his body again. He rose carefully and climbed back into the gazebo, gathering his shoes. He definitely was not going to the ballroom; Josie was being too damned confusing right now. 

“Aran!” He looked up sharply at the sound of his name being called and found Tilly waving from the bench by the pond.

She must have been hidden by the long limbs of the willow tree, he guessed. There was no other way he wouldn’t have seen her from the gazebo. She looked like a garden princess; her white novice robes were stiff and pristine, her hands full of dandelions she was weaving into crowns. “Hey,” he padded over to her. “Not in the mood for a party?”

“Am I not?” She lifted her flower crown and placed it atop her head, lifting her brows.

“Many apologies, your highness. I didn’t realize you were holding court.”

“Court?” she laughed.

“You _are_ the Princess of the Willow, aren’t you? Heir to the Dandelion Court?” 

She shook her head. “You’re a sly dog.” 

“I am?” he asked, dropping to sit on the grass at her feet. “How’s that?”

“Calling me a princess.”

“I call them like I see them.”

Tilly smiled, a touch too tight, setting the flower crown in her lap. “Do you now?”

“You’re the one wearing a crown. You tell me.” He dropped his shoes to the side and stretched his legs out, grinning up at her. “Why aren’t you inside? You love dancing.”

“I do. Unfortunately, I appear to have chosen the wrong wardrobe for this event.”

“I like your robes.”

“You’re the only one.”

“That’s not true. They’re a good cut. They suit you. And they look bloody uncomfortable, which seems to be exactly what this party requires.” He crossed his eyes, peeling his jacket off and tossing it atop his shoes. “People are stupid, Till. You want to dance, you should dance. Here, you can dance with me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. 

Sometimes she was so like Tristan that it was hilarious. He snorted, rolling the legs of his pants up to just below his knees, and held up a hand, wiggling his fingers. “Come on. You know you want to.”

“A sly rebel dog. I’m surprised at you.”

“Look, if they start playing a waltz, you’re going to miss your shot.”

“Aran.”

“Ottilie.”

“What _would_ Josephine say?”

“That I nearly broke her toe when we were learning reels last quarter.”

“Whose toe?” Aran felt his stomach clench with nerves, then ease as Tristan wandered through the branches of the willow. 

“Josie’s.”

“Why are you down here talking about Josie’s feet?”

Aran shrugged. “Ask your sister.”

“You shouldn’t ask me to dance when you’ve been kissing Josephine Montilyet, that’s why.” Tilly crossed her arms, “It’s poor manners.”

Aran squinted. “What does one have to do with another?”

“Wait, what?” Tristan asked quietly. “You kissed Josie?”

“No!” he frowned, “She kissed me. Like a _sister_ ,” he amended.

Tilly picked idly at the flowers, lifting her brows. “It didn’t look very sisterly to me.”

Aran huffed, falling back to lay on the ground, “How many sisters do you have?”

“I _am_ a sister.”

“You’re a twin and a menace. I’ve been kissed by sisters my whole life.” He frowned, thinking of Josie’s little sigh. _‘You can show me how much...’ ‘Would you like to go out with me?_ ’ “Bloody fucking Void. Is that what she meant?” he asked, horrified, sitting up. 

“By what?”

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “She asked if I wanted to- I thought she-“ He wrinkled his nose. “Is nothing sacred?” he demanded, rolling to his feet. “Is everything just topsy-turvy now? She’s my _friend_. What the- You don’t just go around springing things like this on people.” He frowned, eyeing the gazebo mistrustfully. “Maybe she’s drunk. Or she’s got a head wound.” His eyes widened, “Oh, Maker, she’s got a concussion and she’s wandering around drinking and kissing people.”

“I don’t think that’s how concussions work.”

“Don’t you have to ask to do that? I mean, if it’s _meant_ like- I remember getting a lecture about consent.” He crossed his arms, “Ugh. _Ugh_ . Why?” He scowled at Tilly. “ _You_ don’t think I was- Is that it? Someone flipped some switch and now I can’t hang out with Josie without- and I can’t dance with you anymore? I wasn’t trying to- to-“ he made a gagging noise. “Come on.” 

Tilly narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have to make it sound like torture.”

“You’re like my _sister_.”

“So? Apparently you kiss your sisters all the time.”

“Not like _that_!” he shuddered. “Maker have mercy.”

“You just said it _was_ like that.”

“Well, I didn’t _know_ , did I?”

She rose to her feet, hands on hips, “What's wrong with me? What’s wrong with Josephine?”

“ _Nothing’s_ wrong with you. You’re just- Just-“ He scrubbed a hand through his hair, “I don’t know. Not- I don’t know.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “ _I don’t know_ . I never really thought about it.” Not with them. His cheeks flamed as he remembered the dreams he’d been having. _Those_ were dreams about kissing. Endless warm presses of chapped lips, long pale hair falling in a curtain around his face- He’d woken, spent, clasping his own shoulder, palming his arm- “Till-“ he called uselessly as she strode off. “For fuck’s sake.” He dropped to the bench she’d left, poking at one of her abandoned dandelion crowns.

Tristan threaded his fingers through his hair, scratching his head as he watched Tilly storm off towards the house. His brows were gathered in a curious frown when he turned to Aran again. “What’s up with her?"

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know.” His voice cracked again and he hung his head back to stare up at the inside of the draped limbs of the willow tree.

"She's been irritable all day. They must be stretching her thin at the Circle." 

“Maybe. I hope she doesn’t stay mad at me.”

"I'm sure she won't." The gravel crunched softly under his shoes as he moved closer, then sat on the bench beside him. "So, uh…" he started, sliding his palms in his pockets and stretching his legs out long. "You and Josie, huh?"

He frowned at the arcs of the branches. “She said we’re similar. I guess we are. Does that mean we have to-” He crossed his ankles. “I mean, I like Josie. She’s nice.”

"Yeah. She is." Tristan stole a sideways glance at Aran, then sank deeper on the bench. "Do you _like_ like her? Or-" He paused, chewing on his lip. "She's really nice. And pretty. Penwith and the others made a list of all the girls in our year. I think she placed third."

Aran squinted. “Who were first and second?”

"Bianchi was the second, I think," he shrugged. "And Statton was the first. Actually, it was a tie between her and Hallewell. I'm pretty sure it was because Penwith has a crush on her and tried to sneak in points. But don’t tell Cardew that. Or Jonston." 

“Based on what?” he asked, confused, then shook his head. “Nevermind. It won’t make sense to me. Nothing your friends say makes sense to me.”

Tristan huffed a laugh and placed his elbows on the back of the bench, gaze fixed on the willow branches moving with the wind above them. "So how was it?"

“Fine?” He itched the side of his nose. How _had_ it been? He hadn’t even known what it meant when it was happening. He tried to sort through the sensations in his memory. “Not- I don’t know. Fine.” 

"Oh. Okay. That's great, then." Tristan stayed silent for a long moment, the music and chatter drifting from the manor the only sound between them. "You and Josie… yeah. Didn't see that coming. But I guess you do have lots in common. She's sound." He paused again, frowning. "I had no idea she liked you. Did you know she liked you? I mean- had you noticed anything?"

“No.” He rolled his eyes. “She was normal and then she was on me, like some kind of dragonfly all… flapping.” 

Tristan scrunched his nose. "That doesn't sound very pleasant."

“It wasn’t _un_ pleasant. It was just- She was just _there_.” He frowned, tucking his heels up onto the bench. “You don’t think she’s going to want to do that again, do you?”

"Ah… I gather you _don't_ want her to do it again?"

Aran watched the leaves flitter on the long branches. Was that what he meant? Did he not want her to? No. Not particularly. Wasn’t he supposed to? “Maybe just on holidays or something.” He sniffed. “Once in a while’s not awful. If I have to. Do I have to?”

Tristan stared at him for a moment, then let out a small laugh. "Why would you have to?" he asked, shifting on the bench to face him. "You only kiss people if you want to kiss them, not because you have to."

“That’s definitely not true. My aunt Gertrude smells like cod roe and I have to kiss her once a year.” He stuck out of his tongue, then subsided. “Josie’s not- She’s nice. She’s - aye, she’s sound. Not- I just don’t- I like hanging out with her. I don’t see why she wants to- Ugh.” He rubbed his temples. “Why are girls so difficult?”

"If you find the answer to that, let me know," Tristan laughed. He stood up, idly kicking the dirt with the heel of his shoe. "The thing is- if you don't want to kiss Josie, then don't. You don't have to do something you don't want to, and Josie… I think it's better if she finds out sooner rather than later. Later might be harder."

“Aye.” He watched the wind catch at Tristan’s hair. The way his shoulders curved against the backdrop of the willow limbs. And hugged his knees. “Well,” he hesitated. “Aye. Maybe.” He frowned. “I think- if I was going to like a girl, I think it’d be her. She’s far smarter than Statton, and Bianchi is-” He made a gagging noise. “And Hallewell’s a mean gossip.”

Tristan hummed his assent. "Yeah. Josie's great. But Statton isn't that bad. If I was going to like a girl…" His frown had deepened when he turned to look at Aran. "So you've never liked a girl before?"

“No- That’s- Most of my friends are girls. I like girls fine.”

"No- I mean-" Tristan tilted his head to the side. "You've never wanted to kiss a girl?"

Aran bit his lip hard and peered out through the willow’s cover to the pond. “No. Have you?”

Tristan kicked at the dirt again, sliding his hands in his pockets. "No. Can't say that I have." The kicking stopped abruptly. "So… who do you want to kiss? I mean- uh-" A brief pause. "Nevermind."

Aran rubbed his lip where his tooth had clipped when Tristan had asked his question. His fingers came back bloody. Stupid dreams. Stupid, weird dreams that he couldn’t shake. His heart was racing. He tongued the cut, tasting copper and trying not to let the details of those dreams surface in his head again. Sea water dripping off full lips, strands of white blond hair caught against the salt and sea, the feel of sand at his back- “No one,” he said hurriedly. “Why- Do I seem like I want to kiss someone? What’s so special about kissing? It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s just- Just-” He scrubbed his palms against his knees. “I thought it’d be different. But it’s just- pressure and smells.”

"I've heard… it's good. That it can be great. But I'm not - I haven't-" He let out a short huff. "I don't really know what it's _like_ ," he muttered. The cool night breeze blew past them, making the leaves on the branches stir. "Do you want to try it with me?"

Aran coughed, looking at him wide-eyed. “Exc- what?”

Tristan glanced at him, then swiftly let his gaze wander away. "Nothing- I just wondered-" He tongued his lip. "I just wondered what it would be like. It's fine. Forget it. Shall we, uh… shall we go inside?"

“No, it’s-” He swallowed, hugging his knees. “It’s fine. I got to try it. You should- That’s fair. Right?”

Tristan blinked. "Right. Yes. O-okay." He threaded his fingers through his hair, then slowly let his arm fall. "Okay." He took a hesitant step towards the bench. Another. He sat down stiffly, facing him. "Right. How do we-" His tongue glided over his bottom lip, making it glisten. "How do we do this?"

“So-” Aran winced as his voice cracked again. “Uh. I just- sat there and she-” He rubbed his knuckles across his lower lip. “She just leaned in.” He cleared his throat. “So-” He couldn’t hear himself over the sound of his heart in his ears. “Do I just show you?”

Tristan watched him carefully, concentration wrinkling his brow. A lock of hair drifted across his face with the wind. He pushed it behind his ear, then leaned forward, placing his lips on Aran's. 

Had he said something? Were they still sitting down? He couldn’t feel his toes and there was some great timpani playing somewhere between his head and his chest, vibrating the air that was caught in his throat. Electric and slightly chapped and not-not pleasant. His hands clenched into fists on his shins because suddenly he wanted to reach up and touch Tristan’s hair- that hair that he’d braided a dozen times and combed his fingers through when Tristan fell asleep on him and- 

Tristan pulled back, just far enough to look at him. He let out a slow, steady exhale, their breaths mingling. "Was that-" he whispered, his eyes darting away for a moment before returning to his. "That wasn't weird, was it?"

Aran blinked, swallowing a gulp of air. “W-weird?”

"Yeah. Like-" Before Aran could say another word, Tristan leaned in again, catching his bottom lip between his. And was that his tongue, cool and slick, gliding gently over it? Tristan cocked his head to the side, his breath warming Aran's skin as they kissed. 

Aran shivered, leaning in and dabbing his tongue out to meet that slick on his lip- Yes. That was a tongue. Cool and wet and tasting of punch and lemons and gin- He felt a strand of Tristan’s hair brush his cheek and brushed it back over Tristan’s ear. 

He thought he heard Tristan humming softly at the back of his throat, but it could have been his imagination. Tristan's eyes were wide and dark when he edged back once more, breaking the kiss. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them saying a word. "So…" Tristan licked his lips. "Was that what it was like when Josie kissed you?"

“No.” Aran swallowed. Maker, no. Nothing like it. Nothing like- Anything. Nothing like anything. How? How was it so different? It was only lips- lips and breath and- that familiar scent of Tristan’s shampoo and leather and the sweat of the ride and horseflesh and- “No. Where did you get gin?”

Tristan straightened, pushing his hair behind his ear. The same ear Aran had touched. A smile was curving the edges of his lips now- a small, tricky one, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Uncle Vestrit forgot his drink in the drawing room. I had a sip." The smile widened. "Or two."

Aran shook his head, “You’re going to get grounded. Again.”

He shrugged. "No one saw me." His brow arched, the smile got wider still. That could only mean one thing; mischief. "I can always tell them you did it."

“I was out here. I have an alibi!”

"I'm here now. You're my alibi." He grinned. "I'll tell them you had a flask in your pocket."

“I-” Aran blew his cheeks out, scowling. “That’s the last time I let you catch up with me on anything. From here on out, you are on your own.”

Tristan blinked. "Right." His brows gathered in a frown, but it was polished away almost instantly to be replaced by his usual placid, unreadable expression. "Fine. Whatever." He stood up. "Are you coming in or are you staying here?"

“Josie’s in there.”

"So?"

“So-” Aran rested his chin on his knees. “So, you don’t need me anyway. Go away.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, huffing. "Don't tell me what to do," he snapped. " _You_ go away."

“I _can’t-_ ” He flushed, looking out over the pond. “I mean, I can’t go in there. Yet. To talk to her. It’s… weird now.”

" _You're_ weird," Tristan grumbled, kicking at the dirt again. He let out another sharp huff, then plopped on the bench with a frown, crossing his arms before his chest. "I'm still telling them you gave me the gin if they ask, by the way."

Aran slanted a sideways glance at him. “Like you told Addington I spilled that raspberry juice on the chaise.”

Tristan's pout trembled slightly. "You spilled the raspberry juice," he mumbled, looking away. 

“I didn’t! I was there! I remember!” Aran shoved him playfully. “And I don’t have a flask on me. You can search me.”

"Oh, yeah?" Tristan wrapped his arm around Aran's neck, catching him in a headlock. "Where's the booze, boy?" he growled in a mocking imitation of Uncle Vestrit's rough voice, patting his pockets. "Where is it?"

He yelped, twisting and writhing, “I don’t- Tris-” He flushed, wrapping himself into a ball, “I don’t have anything!”

"Oh, you're a sly one, aren't you, laddie?" Tristan continued in that same voice, laughing when his arm was caught under Aran's chin. "Hey- Aran-" He tapped Aran's head gently. His breath was hot, so close to his ear, his chest pressing against Aran’s knees. "Hey. Give me back my arm."

He couldn’t move. Tristan’s hands on him felt different. Changed. Not changed. Charged. _Tristan_ wasn’t any different. But- He tried to stop a shiver as Tristan exhaled again, breath to his cheek, to his ear, hot and- Aran swallowed. “Do you think- Do you want to try it again?” he peered at Tristan. “For practice?”

The pressure around Aran's neck eased when Tristan stayed perfectly still. "Uh…" he blinked. His throat bobbed when he swallowed. "Sure. For- for practice."

Aran studied him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t have to.”

"No- it's- I mean-" Tristan bit his lip. "Let's do it."

He lifted his brows, nodding, “Yeah?” He turned his head and caught the side of Tristan’s mouth and his tooth on the first try, bumping his nose.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.” He tilted his head and tried again. “Better?” he asked.

"Yes," Tristan laughed softly. "A little." He opened his mouth just a hair, his tongue brushing Aran's lips again. Meeting his own, then retreating before sliding forth once more. There was an odd, languid rhythm to it, the way their lips glided against each other's. Tristan slid an inch closer, his palm finding its way to the small of his back. "Your lips are soft."

“Yeah.” Aran nodded, swallowing, “I mean, yours are-” He licked his lower lip. “Do you think we just kiss different than them?” he wondered, entranced by the slight gleam on Tristan’s lips. Warmer. He glanced up, quirking a brow. 

"You tell me," Tristan said quietly, meeting his gaze. "I've never kissed a girl." He shrugged, running his tongue over his lip before biting it. "Maybe we do." His palm was still on Aran's back, his chest pressing against his shins with every breath. He leaned closer, their noses touching. "Is it… better? Or worse?"

“Better,” Aran snorted, feeling his cheeks flush. “Loads better. Different.” His eyes were crossing with the effort of looking Tristan in the eye this close. He blinked and focused on just one of them as his heart flipped and flopped and stumbled like a drunkard. “Wanna try more of the tongue thing?”

Tristan swallowed, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay." His tongue darted out, brushing over Aran's lips. Slowly, carefully, as if tracing their shape. Then, bolder, coaxing them open to twine with his own. "That's nice," he breathed, flicking his tongue over Aran's lower lip. "I like the tongue thing."

“Uh huh.” He grinned, quick and sharp, “Yeah. It’s a lot better. Do you- Should I try- Is that okay?”

"Yes." Tristan's grin mirrored his own. "Give it a try."

“Right.” Aran flicked his tongue out, licking each of Tristan’s lips one by one. There were little differences he’d never bothered to notice before- the fullness, the shape, the way he had those little bits where his upper lip was chapped that caught against his tongue. The dip and bow. The corners of his lips where they met and Tristan exhaled hot breath when he eased them apart. The way his lips opened at that nudge and Aran could slip inside and trace the arc of the tip of his tongue with his own. He sighed, shifting closer, and licked the length of Tristan’s tongue, his eyes falling closed with the sensation. He only stopped when he was starting to get dizzy and realized he needed to breathe again. Panting, he blinked hard to clear his eyes from the tiny spots of light that were dancing in his vision, and only then realized he’d somehow wound his hand up to the back of Tristan’s shoulder, clinging to him. He flexed his hand, glancing at Tristan. “That’s- yeah- that’s- Was that okay?”

"Hm?" Tristan's lids fluttered open, falling heavily over his eyes. "Oh. Yeah- that was-" he nodded, clearing his throat. "That was good. Okay." He pressed a kiss on Aran's lower lip, licked it gently, then pulled back again. "Did you do the tongue thing with Josie, too?"

He shook his head, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why it sucked?” he wondered. “No, that’s not- relatively sucked. She touched my ear, though.” He cocked his head to the side. “Was there a guy?”

Tristan blinked. "Where?"

“You said there weren’t any girls you’d wanted to kiss.”

"Oh." Tristan blinked again. A light flush coloured his cheeks- or was it a play of the light? "Yeah. Uh… There's been a couple. Guys. A couple guys." He lifted his brows. "How about you?"

He fought the impulse to cross his eyes as he felt heat creep into his cheeks. “Thought about it a few times,” he lifted his shoulder in a half shrug, shifting and trying to decide if he was supposed to leave his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. It felt good under his palm. Warm and just a little tense. “I just never… thought about thinking about it. I guess. If that… makes sense?” He bit his lip. “So… that’s- Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m predisposed.”

"'Predisposed?'" Tristan's eyes narrowed in a curious frown. "Is that another word for gay?"

Aran laughed, “Yeah. Or- yeah. Probably, maybe, I guess? Miri says there’s a mix between development and genetic predispositions. A lot of fluidity. Spectrums and chemistry and whatever.” He shrugged, rolling his eyes, “I ask a lot of questions. Never really… thought about myself in them, was all.” He wrinkled his nose. 

Tristan huffed a laugh. "You do ask a lot of questions." His smile was warm and lazy when he leaned in just a little, their foreheads almost touching. "Tilly told me I was gay ages ago. I guess I am. I've never really liked girls. I mean I like them as friends, but kissing them-" He scrunched his nose. "I don't know. Don't think I'd enjoy that. I mean- maybe I would, because- they smell nice, I guess? And their lips must be soft."

“They were. They were really soft. Different soft.”

"Mmhmm." Tristan brushed his lips over Aran's. "Yours are soft, too." He hummed, his palm gliding up his back. "And they taste… did you have any of the punch?"

“Jo brought some out,” he watched Tristan’s lips as he spoke. “Weird, tasting things on someone else, eh?”

"Yeah," Tristan snorted. "Imagine if you had garlic. Or onions. Or mint liqueur. Bleh."

“I like garlic,” Aran laughed. “And onions. And- right - not mint liqueur. But not gin, either, and it’s not as bad this way.”

"Gin tastes great." 

“It’s gross; it’s like licking tree bark.” 

"No, it isn't." Tristan hummed softly, kissing him again, licking his lips. His tongue cool and light and velvety smooth- "You know what we should do?" He pulled back to look at him, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. "You should have something that I hate. And I should have something that you hate. And then we kiss again and see how it tastes."

Aran grinned, his eyes narrowed. “There’s those pickled sardines Nelly makes. You should eat those. I can’t stand them.” 

“I can’t stand them either!”

“So? That’s not the point.” He bit his lip, his grin slipping sideways. “It was your idea.”

"I take it back," Tristan laughed, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Pickled sardines. I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole if you had one of those. Fruit punch is much better. Much, much better." He quirked a brow at him. "Think you could have some strawberries? I like strawberries. Or strawberry jam. I like that, too."

“Ah, now, you’re changing the rules.” Aran snorted, “Obviously you’d like what you like anyway, right?” He paused. “I mean, even if there was someone you didn’t really like, you’d probably still like kissing them if they tasted like- I don't know. Apricot tarts or something.” 

"No! I mean- I don't know. I don't think so. It's not- it isn't about the taste. It's-" He bit his lip. "I was joking. You don't have to eat anything. Apricot tarts are great, but you-" His gaze flicked over the pond for a moment before returning to him. "Do you want to do the tongue thing again?"

“Kind of. Do you?” 

"Sure." He leaned in, their noses brushing against each other's, then pulled back again. "Do you want to stop?"

“No. It’s- No.” He poked idly at Tristan’s shoulder, “How’d she know, do you think? Did she tell you? Tilly?” 

"She- well-" Tristan frowned in thought. "We always talk about the people we like, or that we find good-looking. And… I just never talked to her about any girls. Oh, and she said I had a crush on Montanerre in second form, but I don't. I really don't. I just think he's fit. It's not the same as having a crush, is it? And, uh…" He glanced away. "There was this boy I fancied ages ago. Before I met you. I guess she's known since then." 

“How many ages?”

“Nine years ago? I think?”

“You fancied someone when you were _seven_?” Aran stared at him. “Fuck me.” 

He shrugged, looking back at him. "When did you know?"

“What do you mean, when?” Aran rolled his eyes. “I just found out. I didn’t know we were supposed to sort it before we were out of Velcro.”

Tristan snorted a laugh. "You've always been a little slow on the uptake," he said with a grin. "So you’ve never looked at someone and thought that you might want to kiss them? Or spend time with them? Or just- I don't know, found them good-looking?" He widened his eyes. "Attractive?"

“I spend time with who I want to spend time with.” Aran wrinkled his brow. “For the most part, anyway. No one told me I was supposed to classify people. Everyone was normal and then suddenly everyone was acting like- I don’t know. Different. I didn’t know-“ he itched his nose on Tristan’s cheek because it seemed more expedient than moving his hands. “I mean, I’ve thought people were fit. I just- Like, there’s that statue of Hazren the Great by the beach? I love that statue. Am I supposed to want to snog it just because it’s pretty?” He frowned, “Oh- Maker. Now I’m having an entirely different- your friends were totally groping the Lady of the Heather last quarter.”

Tristan blinked at him for a moment, then threw his head back in laughter. "The Lady of the-" he snorted, then brushed his cheek on his shoulder. "Yeah. I remember that. Cardew's an ass. Talked about her 'knockers' for about a week after. Ugh." His smile widened before it relaxed. "I don't think it's just about someone being pretty. There's lots of pretty people around, but I don't think I'd kiss them just because of that. Have you never had this… where you see someone you like and your heart beats faster. And your palms get clammy and you just want to… to be close to them. Or talk to them. Or-" He titled his head to the side. "Have you never felt that before?"

“That’s what that is?” he asked, frowning. “Fancying someone?”

"More or less," Tristan shrugged. "At least that's what it's been like for me."

“Oh.” He dropped his gaze to Tristan’s shoulder. So that- the dreams and the false breezes and the- Did he fancy Tristan then? Was that why he liked kissing him so much more? Did it have anything to do with him being a boy? Was it just that Josie wasn’t him? But he couldn’t fancy Tristan. Could he? Tristan was- his best friend. Practically a brother. His- Wasn’t he? “Oh.”

"So, uh… do you fancy anyone?"

His face felt like it was on fire. He tightened his arm around his knees, the back of his arm brushing against Tristan’s chest. Did he? Was that really what this was? This hammering in his ears and the way every brush of Tristan’s breath made him want to run and hold onto him at the same time? “If that’s what it is,” he breathed, hoarse. “I guess. I guess maybe I do.”

"Oh." Tristan was watchin him carefully, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Is it someone I know?"

“That’s-” Aran bit his lip. “A riddle. I mean, that’s a deep philosophical question. Do we want to enter philosophical territory? It’s the summer.”

Tristan's brow furrowed in confusion. "A what question? Why enter philosophical territory? Wait." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you fancy Hazren the Great."

He snorted, the tension that had wound its way into his stomach releasing. “You’ve caught me out. Do you think he fancies me back? I know about all his battles.”

"You'll definitely have a lot to talk about," Tristan grinned. "I think he'll appreciate you courting him. Must get really lonely by the beach during the winter. I could be your wingman."

“Would you?” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Dashed generous of you. Do you… need a wingman? For your… couple?” He squinted.

"Uh…" Tristan swallowed, glancing away. "I don't- I'm not- not right now. Thanks. There isn't really someone right now that- uh-" He paused, clearing his throat. "I'll let you know. When- if there is one." He blinked. "Or a couple."

“Oh. Okay.” Aran ducked his head, “Well. If there is. You know. I’m sure… they’ll be glad you practiced.”

"Yeah. Yeah." Tristan's fingers tapped a rhythm on his back. "You, too. If-if there is anyone." His lips curved in a small smile. "Hazren will appreciate it."

“Do you think?” He eyed the curve of Tristan’s shoulder, leading into the starched collar. The line of his neck. “I mean, he’s got centuries of experience.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. "Better start practicing a lot then, if you want to catch up with him."

Another mild breeze floated past them, cooling Aran’s neck and making Tristan’s hair shimmer like moonlit water. Lily pads and candles. Unexpectedly welcome spiderwebs. Aran tilted his head and brushed his lips over Tristan’s, capturing his laugh, tasting it on his tongue. So much better than dreams. He shivered, his hand flexing at Tristan’s shoulder, feeling his friend’s fingertips at his back. 

Tristan shifted closer, deepening the kiss. Little puffs of air from his nose brushed Aran's cheek as Tristan hummed softly, his tongue gliding along the inside of his lip. "Yeah," he whispered, the vibration of his voice travelling through Aran's arm where it touched his chest. "Definitely need more practice."

“Aye,” he breathed, shifting his knees down so that he could fold closer, feel more of that vibration, feel- “Thanks for that.” They kissed until they couldn’t breathe, until they were gasping. Aran felt dizzy with it, with the touch of him, the taste of him, the smell- senses overwhelming and enveloping and- He tentatively stroked his fingers down Tristan’s back to the small of his back, mirroring Tristan’s touch - He’d sweated through his shirt and it was damp against Aran’s fingers. Angel’s wings. He laughed, breathless, wanting- what? Something- More. More of this. He lapped at Tristan’s lower lip, catching his breath. “Can- What are we supposed to do with our hands? Other than grope the Lady of the Heather and her knockers?”

"What's wrong with the Lady's knockers?" Tristan grinned against his lips. His palm glided tentatively up his back, tracing the channel of his spine through his clothes. "I've seen people do this," he said, cupping Aran's neck with his other hand. It was warm and soft, his fingertips slithering in Aran's hair. He leaned in, his lips slick and slightly swollen from their earlier kisses when they touched his own. "Do you like that?"

“Yes,” Aran shivered, letting his fingers trace the same path, giving into the impulse to touch Tristan’s neck, petting the silk of his hairline. “Do you?”

Tristan hummed, his fingers moving higher, threading in his hair. "I do. It feels-" he traced Aran's lip with his tongue, his thumb brushing over his ear, "I like the way it feels."

“Aye,” a strange rolling sound escaped him. “It’s good, it’s-“ The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made him blink. Realize he was practically in Tristan’s lap, wound around him, in his arms, tangled and touching and- “Someone’s coming,” he whispered. 

Tristan's eyes widened, his back straightening in a flash. He snatched his hands away from Aran, untangling himself as he slid well away from him on the bench. He was pushing his hair off his face and wiping his lips on his forearm when Tilly emerged from within the foliage. She stood a good few paces away from them, her arms crossed before her chest.

"Mother sent me to look for you," she told Tristan. "They want to make a toast."

"Oh," Tristan breathed, smoothing his palm over his shirt. "Right. We'll be there in a minute."

Aran could feel his pulse in his fingertips, like he was one giant, throbbing- nope. Could they see it? Could they hear his heart? He felt like he was swaying. Was he swaying?

Tilly glanced at Tristan, then at Aran, her brows furrowed. "I do hope you weren't talking about me."

"Ah- no. We weren't talking about you. Why would we?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You look suspicious."

Tristan bit the inside on his lip, sneaking a glance at Aran. "We were just talking. About- stuff. Not you stuff. We don't-" He paused, narrowing his eyes at her in return. "You're weird today. Why are you weird today?"

"I'm not weird! Ugh, why does everyone keep telling me that!" She rolled her eyes, huffing. "I'm still mad at you, you know," she said, pointing a finger at him. " _Both_ of you."

"What did I do?" Tristan protested.

Aran buried his face against his knees. He was never going to be able to walk anywhere ever again. Maybe they would argue amongst themselves and he could just dive into the pond. 

Tilly shot her brother a fiery glare. “Oh yes, how could I forget, you never do anything wrong, you’re Mr. Perfect, aren’t you? Or is it _Lord_ Perfect MacBrilliantson now? Strutting about, getting showered with praise and handshakes from everyone while I’m sitting there all alone! You haven’t seen me in two months and you don’t even bother to spend some time with me!”

“We were together all day yesterday!”

“Two hours before your training does _not_ a day make,” she snapped at him, pouting. 

“I was there,” Aran quietly raised his hand, peering at her past his knee caps.

“And _you_.” Tilly turned her furious gaze to him. “Don’t think I’m not mad at you, too. Sneaking around with Josie and then acting like- like-” she threw her head back, letting out a frustrated grunt. “You’re the worst, both of you!

“Who was sneaking?” he asked, irritated. “I was minding my own bloody business. You’re the one lurking in a feckin’ tree.”

“I was just _sitting_ here!” 

“Well, so was I!”

“Well-” She frowned. “Well, good for you, then!” 

“And if you’d bloody said you were here, I’d have helped you with your stupid dandelions.” Aran scowled. 

“I don’t need your help!” Tilly glared at him, her arms firmly crossed before her, but her lip trembled before she spoke. “I was only out here making stupid flower crowns because- because no one wants me in there! Just looking me up and down like I’m about to set the tablecloths on fire.” She sniffed, looking away. “All I’m good for is coming to fetch _him_ apparently now. Well, they can find a new errand girl because I’m _not_ coming after you again!” She spun on her heel, stomping away.

“Tilly,” Tristan groaned, standing up. “Tilly, come back here.”

“No!”

He rolled his eyes, then looked at Aran. “Did you _have_ to rile her up?”

“Me?!” Aran stared at him. “Are you bloody joking?”

“Yes, _you_ ,” Tristan retorted, already striding after his sister. He took two steps, then glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

“You’re mad. You’re all bloody mad; there’s something in the water.” He shoved off the bench and grabbed his jacket from the grass. “Tilly!” he shouted. “Get yourself back here!”

“No!” she shouted back at him from behind the trunk of a tall fig tree. “Go away!”

“Maker’s mercy,” Tristan whispered under his breath, making his way towards her. “Come on, Till. It’s alright. Aran’s sorry.”

“I’m not!” Aran kicked him. “I did fuck all!” He threw his jacket at Tristan and took off towards the tree. “I’ll toss you in the bloody pond, hen.”

“I don’t care!” Tilly turned away from him, sniffling. “You can try. I’ll set your shoes on fire. Or- or I’ll freeze the pond. I can do that now, you know.” She paused to wipe her nose on her sleeve. “Well, almost. Last time I tried the spell it- oh, it doesn’t matter, I don’t care, I don’t care about either of you!”

Aran rested his hand on her back. “You wanna show us? The freezing thing? That sounds cool.” He leaned around her to peer at her. “Get it? Cool?”

Tilly snorted a laugh, brushing her knuckle under her eyes. “I can’t. My supervisor would kill me if she ever found out I used magic outside the Circle.”

“Empty threats, then?” Tristan leaned against the tree on her other side. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, I can still box your ears, don’t you worry about that.”

“You can’t. You love me. I’m your favourite brother.”

“Want to test the truth of that statement?”

Tristan grinned, placing his arm over her shoulders. “And you’re my favourite sister.” He pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Better now?”

“No,” she grumbled, then let out a sharp huff. “Maybe. A little. But I’m still-”

“Yes, you’re mad. I know. At Aran.”

Aran rolled his eyes, “Right, I’m done.” He turned on his heel and headed for the house. 

“Now where are _you_ going?”

He spun lifting his arms, “Have to go tell Josie I’m gay. I’ll find you later.” He shrugged, shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to face the music.


	6. Of Sharks and Marlins (1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter ends a little abruptly- it ended up being a little too long, so we split the it into two for easier reading. The next part will be up soon!

## [Tristan]

_Council 15:37_

The water was freezing cold when Tristan dove in, headfirst. Every muscle in his body tensed, every hair stood on end. He shivered as he kicked forward, gliding underwater for a few breaths before pushing himself up. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, pushing his hair off his face. “It’s _cold._ ”

Aran’s head bobbed over the surface, then sank back in as a wave rolled past them. “What was that?”

“I said it’s cold.” Standing made the shivering worse. He swam towards him, vigorously enough to warm up. He glanced up at the sky that was already thick with rainclouds. “I hope you brought a towel.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Yeah. For me.”

Aran grinned. “Good. We’ll share, then.”

“No way I’m giving you my towel. You threw it on the sand last time, remember?”

Aran rolled his eyes, diving back in, circling him like a shark. A particularly lean and pale shark. “Beach towels are supposed to be full of sand,” he said when he emerged, blinking sea water from his eyes.

“Since when?”

“Since the moment someone decided to name them ‘beach towels’. There’s sand on the beach, so beach towels should get some on them, too, right? Otherwise people should just call them towels.” His curls clung to his forehead, heavy with water, golden strands of seaweed that travelled down the nape of his neck. A grin crossed his flushed face, like it always did when he thought he had the upper hand in an argument. 

Tristan scoffed. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Aran shrugged, lowering himself in the water up to his nose, looking up at him. 

“I should call you ‘beach Aran’. Then you can be thrown in the sand, too.” He quirked a brow. “How’s that for semantics?"

A few bubbles broke the surface of the water, the corners of Aran's eyes crinkling. “Poor,” he said, the sound half drowned out by the water. “Very poor.” He only managed a muffled yelp when Tristan grabbed him by the waist, pulling him underwater. He wriggled easily out of his grasp, shoving him away. “Oy!” He glared at him. “Watch it. I’ll wallop you, aye.”

“You can bloody try,” Tristan said with a grin that held every bit of challenge he could pack into it. “I’ll wallop you first.” 

They stared at each other for a few breaths before Aran turned around, kicking hard as he started swimming away. Tristan was after him in an instant, sending all his power to his legs to catch up with him. 

“Race you to the cove!” Aran yelled, just before he dove in, disappearing from view.

Tristan gritted his teeth, took in a sharp breath. Swimming underwater was faster, but it tired you out faster, too. Better to keep a steady tempo if they were swimming all the way to the Pirate’s Cove. It was the next beach over, inaccessible by land, surrounded by tall rocks that led to a small cave. Aran and he had discovered it ages before, when they were only children, and had been sneaking away there ever since. Slowly but surely, they’d made it their own. They’d brought in wood, kindling, matches, books, some old clothes, even a boardgame which they hadn’t touched in a couple summers. An old telescope that had belonged to his father, a map, a chart of constellations. The hours they’d spent in that little cave were beyond counting; once, they’d even gotten stranded there for the better part of an evening, when the tide had risen and there was no way to swim back without getting swept away towards the rocks. It was shortly after this that snacks had been added to their secret collection, those that could withstand time and elements to a degree, as well as a towel, a blanket, a change of clothes. No matter how many times Nelly had made them swear not to go back there, they always did. So, proper provisions it would have to be, or the unpleasant possibility of ending up shivering and ravenous in the cove all night next time they got stuck there.

He could just make out Aran’s head over the waves that rolled towards him. He was getting somewhat slower, but he was still fast- slick and agile like an eel. Or a seal. He chuckled to himself as he pushed onwards, ever onwards, gaining ground. A shark and a seal and a wildcat all wrapped up in one, when the mood struck. Seals were too well tempered, sharks not nearly as playful. A wild cat would suit him well, if he wasn’t so fond of the water. 

Tristan took in a deep breath when he found himself only an arm’s length away from him, the currents that his legs were kicking up washing over him. He grabbed one of his feet, pulling him back.

“Hey! Tris-“ he yelled before a wave swept past him. “Fucking tadger-“

Tristan didn’t even stop to listen to Aran’s muffled protests and swears as he swam on, leaving him behind. Races were hardly ever fair, and they didn’t have to be, not in his book, and not when there was no one around to watch. If he had to play dirty to get ahead, he would. The cave was just within view now, and he was already relishing the sweet feeling of his well-earned success, when he saw- no, felt Aran gliding past him under the water. 

“You bloody-“ He took a quick breath, diving after him, reaching out to grab him again. He caught a foot, which promptly slid out of his grasp as Aran kicked forward, quick and effortless like a- what was that fish’s name Aran had told him about the other day? A marlin, was it?

His feet touched rough sand just as Aran was getting out of the water. He was panting like a dog, already feeling warm sweat mixing with the water gliding down his body. Aran was panting too, flushed, grinning, fists on his hips as he stood there, watching him, like he was the king of the world. 

“Happy?” Tristan croaked, wading past him.

Aran’s cackle echoed against the rocks, mingled with the sound of the waves. “You and your underhanded tactics,” he chuckled, following him to the cave. “You know they never work.”

“You can enjoy your victory. For now.” Tristan bent down as soon as he reached the small chest where they kept all their things, digging for the towel. “I’ll beat you on the way back.”

“Says you.” Aran plopped on a flat rock, leaning back on his elbows and closing his eyes. His chest heaved with his breaths, water running in rivulets down his neck, his stomach, his shins, pooling around his feet. Tiny droplets clung to his skin, glinting pale gold in the sun, mixing with his freckles. They always darkened to a soft honey brown in the summer, deeper on his sun kissed shoulders, more pronounced, lighter down his back. His lips were flushed to a deep strawberry pink, glistening, golden eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Sitting on the flat, shiny rock, awash in the warm sunlight that slithered through the clouds, he looked as if he were aglow.

Tristan blinked when he realised he’d been staring. He turned around, resuming his digging. Since when had he started noticing those details? He couldn’t pinpoint the exact time. He fished out the towel, patting down his hair and his neck as he watched the waves crash against the shore. 

“Hungry?” he asked, eyeing a bag of roasted peanuts in the chest. 

Aran’s eyes fluttered open. Copper flecks swimming in the blue, catching the light. “Hm? No, I’m good.”

Tristan shook the towel out, setting it to dry before coming to sit next to him. The stone’s surface was warm from the sun, pleasant. He pressed his palms to it, soaking up the warmth. “Think the tide’s going to rise this time?”

“You know that the tide follows a pattern, right? It’s not an ‘if’, just a ‘when’.” He smirked, wiggling his toes off the edge of the rock. “I know it was a couple years ago, but I didn’t think you planned on forgetting everything from middle school.” He widened his eyes, bright and blue, salt water caught in his lashes. “Do we need to have the talk again, too?”

Tristan’s brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed. “What talk? The one where we decide whether you’re a sore winner?”

“The one where you realize that, as the winner, I get to be right in all things. For eternity. Because I’m faster than you and I’ll always be faster and you suck.” He stuck his tongue out. “Let this be a lesson to you that cheaters never prosper.” 

Heat travelled up Tristan’s cheeks, his frown deepening at the sight of that self-satisfied, frankly bloody irritating smirk on Aran’s lips. Instead of a response, he wrapped his arm around his neck, grabbing him in a headlock. “Who’s a cheater?” he growled, pulling him down. “I’m a cheater? Is the pot calling the kettle black now?”

“That isn’t-” Aran wheezed, wiggling in his grasp, “-what that phrase means-”

“That’s _exactly_ what that phrase means, because _I’m_ saying so, because I’m stronger than you and will be for all eternity.” He laughed as Aran writhed in his hold. “Do you yield?”

“Bite me,” Aran coughed and elbowed him in the side. “Empty-headed, addled, numpty-”

Tristan grunted in pain, but tightened his hold on him before Aran could wriggle away. “You want me to bite you? I’ll bite you,” he said, leaning over him to sink his teeth in his shoulder. 

Aran yelped, shoving at him.

“How’s that? Yield now?” he mumbled around his skin.

“Off- get off- fuck-” He was slippery and quick, but Tristan had long since learned that he couldn’t get out of a headlock. Aran punched at his arm, panting, “Get the fuck off of me-”

Tristan lifted his mouth off him, shooting him a sideways, wary glance. “Wanna tap out?”

“Yield- yield- you bloody bastard-”

Tristan released him, edging back. “Are you alright?”

“Piss off-” he snarled, shoving off the rock and running full tilt back into the water. He fell flat into the water with a slap and dove under, reemerging a few feet away to stand submerged in the shallows and shake his head. “What the Void was that?”

Tristan blinked. “What was what?”

“Who bites someone? Are you rabid?”

“What? But-” Tristan frowned at him. Why was he acting like that all of a sudden? He was sure he had done worse to him, much worse than that. That time when they were wrestling in the rain and he shoved him in a muddy puddle came to mind. He hadn’t been half as mad about it as he was now. He stood up, taking a step towards the water. “Did I hurt you?”

“You _bit_ me!” he repeated and punched the water. 

“Yeah, but-” Tristan could feel his frown getting deeper. “Did it hurt that much?”

“No, it-“ He watched the flush erupt across Aran’s cheeks like a burn, pouring across his face and his ears and staining his neck. “Whatever.”

Tristan shifted on his feet, threaded his fingers through his hair. He was sure he hadn’t bitten down _that_ hard. He had bitten Tilly harder when they were seven. Still, Aran was mad at him. More than he remembered him being after a fight. Perhaps he had misjudged. Addington had told him that boys his age couldn’t always control their strength. He took another step forward. “Hey, I’m sorry, right? I didn’t think it would hurt that bad. I won’t do it again. Okay?”

Aran’s brow creased as his blush deepened; he crossed his arms and sank lower in the water, looking away. “Fine.”

“Are you sure?” Tristan asked, getting in the water. “Let me have a look.”

Aran’s eyes widened, “No- that’s okay- it’s fine. I said it’s fine.”

“I know, I just want to have a look at it. Is it bleeding? I don’t want it to leave a mark or anything, maybe we should wrap it with something, I’m sure we have some bandages in the chest. I brought them a month ago, didn’t I? I don’t think we’ve used them-”

“Maker’s beard, Tris- stop! It’s _fine_. It didn’t hurt. Okay. Just leave it.”

Tristan froze where he was. “It didn’t hurt?” He squinted at him. “So, did I hurt you or didn’t I- I’m confused.”

There was a low, crackling, rusty noise emitting somewhere from between Aran’s nose and throat as Aran sank lower into the water. “Can we talk about something else.”

“But-” Tristan shook his head, frowning as his perplexity grew. What on earth was the matter with him? What had Tristan done to him? He let out a sharp exhale, looking away.

“For fuck’s-” Aran huffed stalking further up the beach, “Just- laugh and get it the fuck over with.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m bloody done with this bullshit.”

Tristan looked back at him, his gaze travelling down his chest, past his stomach- and then he froze. And blinked. And felt his cheeks flushing, perhaps even more than Aran’s cheeks were flushed. He forced his eyes away from the definite tent in Aran’s swim shorts, held them firmly on his face, swallowing hard. “Ah.”

“Aye. ‘Ah’.” Aran sat down in the water, scowling. “Welcome to my daily hilarity.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “Right. Well-” He rubbed the back of his neck, cleared his throat. He could almost feel himself stiffening- no. No. _Think of something else, something-_ “I’m- uh- remember that board game we brought over here? It was- oh, ages ago. Yeah. Two years at least. I- do-” he coughed, “- have you seen it at all?”

“Under the cakes,” Aran muttered darkly. “To keep them from getting too damp.”

“Ah. Well- uh- that’s splendid, then. We could play that. It’s been so long I hardly remember the rules, but- but-” He paused, blinking. What the _Void_ was he on about? He bit his lip, nodding to himself. “Right. I’ll go look for it, shall I?” He turned around, making his way towards the cave. Maker, his face felt as if it were on fire. He could feel Aran’s eyes on his back, or at least he imagined he did, and it wasn’t helping. Not one bit. He knelt by the chest, occupying himself with looking for the blasted game to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder at Aran.

He heard his footsteps through the sand behind him and felt Aran’s shadow fall across him as he grabbed the towel Tristan had hung up, knotting it around his waist. “It’s right there,” he pointed past Tristan’s ear. “See.” He kicked at the sand. “I think we lost one of the pieces. I’ll find a shell for it, shall I?”

Tristan glanced up at him, at the shadows that played across his form. At the shape of his shoulders as they blocked out the sun behind him. The streams of water flowing down his chest towards his navel, dampening the towel- 

_No!_

He turned around again, reaching for the box that had been right before him all along. “Sure. That’ll be great,” he said, as brightly as he could.

“Right.” And then he was gone again. Finally. Kicking at the sand, plucking up stones and shells and discarding them. “See,” he said over his shoulder. “Now I’m hungry. Did any of those cakes actually survive? The ones without the chocolate?” 

“Uh…” Tristan picked up the bag with the cakes, glancing at its contents. “I think so. There’s a blueberry one that looks quite good.” He ripped the bag open, fishing out a cake and handing it to him. “Want this one?”

“Thanks, aye.” He grabbed it with his teeth, holding out his hands full of pebbles and shells. “‘Ere,” he grunted around the cake.

Tristan held his hands out for Aran to drop them. “Hey, some of these are nice,” he said, picking through them. “I’m sure Tilly will like some of them. We could keep them somewhere for when she comes back.” He picked a smooth, shiny one, holding it up before his face. “I know she’ll love this one.” He smiled at Aran. “You have an eye for them.”

“Hn,” he assented, dusting his hands off on the towel. He grabbed the cake, half of it left in his mouth, puffing out his cheeks. “How was tea anyway?” he asked around the mouthful. “Good send-off?”

“Yeah,” Tristan shrugged. “It was good. Nelly made this honey-glazed salmon that she likes. And Mother came back early from work and we had dinner together. She bought her a new phone.” He shifted through the shells again, picking out another one. “I had lemon pie. That was good, too. Tilly said they’ll probably let her out after summer’s over. In a couple months or so, maybe sooner. But she has a lot to study, so perhaps not. We’ll see.” He frowned when he found one of those pearl-like ones that she loved, but found out it was broken. “I don’t think it’s fair, that they’re keeping her there for so long, and not letting her out. She should be able to go out more often than that, don’t you think? Much more often. Once or twice a month at least, maybe more. She’s been there for two years already, you’d think they’d let her see her family and her friends instead of keeping her locked up in there- but no. If they tell her to stay in, she has to stay in. If they say toad, she has to jump. What the Void is that, anyway? How is that helping them exactly? I don’t think Till is better for staying there all the time. In fact, I think she’s worse. You saw how she was this time, didn’t you? All snarling and crying and-” He clicked his tongue, frowning even more. “I don’t know. I don’t like this. It’s not fair. A load of shite is what it is, actually. She should be able to move about as she wants, not stay cooped up there and beg for permission every bloody time.” He watched the waves crashing on the shore, worrying his lip. “So- yeah. Anyway. Tea was good.”

“We can go down.” Aran tilted his head to the side. “At the weekend. Sunday, I don’t have to work the stables. We can go visit. I haven’t seen Miri in ages.”

Tristan sniffed. “Yeah. Yeah, we can. But-” He scrubbed the heat from his eyes, muttering under his breath. “I just- I don’t _like_ it. I don’t like that she’s in there. They’re not- they’re not _nice_ to her. They’re pushing too hard. They’re asking too much. They’re always telling her to study harder, and the Mistress of Novices gives them all extra work if she finds that what they’ve done isn't satisfactory. She’s studying all the time- and I don’t think she’s happy. I don’t think she is.” He snapped his mouth shut just as his voice cracked, then knuckled his eyes again, frowning. 

“She seems okay.” Aran wrinkled his nose. “I mean, moody, for sure. But she sent us those pictures of her wooden cube thing before and the fire going on and off. She’s learning cool stuff.” He squinted, “I _wish_ we’d get extra homework. Studying’s fun. And she’s good at it. Nice to get to do the things you’re good at, right?”

Tristan rolled his eyes, huffing. “Right. Yeah. Whatever. She’s probably grand. She’s probably having a blast studying all the bloody time. What do I know about all that, anyway, right? It’s not like I have the _brains_ for it.” He scowled at Aran, setting the pebbles and shells beside him. “I’m just an idiot who’s only good at sport. In fact, I’m so dense that I can’t even tell whether my own _sister_ is alright or not.”

“That’s not-” Aran sat down on the sand, frowning. “You’re not _only_ good at sport. And Tilly’s not _only_ good at magic. If you think something’s wrong, tell your mom.”

“You think I haven’t? The only reason they let her out as often as they do is because of my mother’s connections. Otherwise she would only be coming out a couple times a year, at most. There’s not much she can do about her studies, though. The Circle decides that, and no one from the outside can change it.” He rolled his eyes again, lying down on the sand, his arm folded beneath his head. “Let’s just talk about something else.”

Aran peered down at him, beads of water dripping from his hair into his eyes. “Want some blueberry cake?”

Tristan pouted, biting the inside of his lip. “Okay.”

“Open.” Aran wiggled the remains of his cake above Tristan’s mouth. “Wider. Like a shark.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, opening his mouth wide to accept the cake. “Thanks,” he mumbled as he chewed. “S’good. For something that’s been there for a week.”

“Right?” Aran grinned, brushing crumbs off his lip with sandy fingers. “You want another one?”

“Sure.” Tristan smiled at him, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Which one do you want?”

“Just not chocolate. Or the powdered ones. Or the sprinkles. Or-” He wrinkled his nose. “Honestly, most are shite. Were there more blueberry ones? Or the juniper ones from First Day?”

“There’s a couple juniper ones.” Tristan reached inside the bag, picking one out. He broke it in half, handing Aran one piece. “The ones with the orange zest were good. But the ones Nelly makes are better. I’ll ask her to make some for us and we can bring them here. You did like those, right?” he said, popping some of the cake in his mouth.

“If I lived at your house, I would look like the Captain.” He nibbled at the middle of his cake, then rested it atop his top lip, balancing it beneath his nose. “Aye?”

Tristan threw his head back in laughter, half choking on his cake, the sound echoing twice as loud in the small cavern. “Yeah, you could pass as Uncle Vestrit any day.” He wiped mirth from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m no idiot, laddie,” he grumbled in a poor approximation of Vestrit’s cadence, glowering down his nose. “I’ve been in three wars.” He grinned, “Or bars- they might have been bars.”

“According to him, he’s been to all the bars in Antiva, Rivain and beyond,” Tristan chuckled. “That counts as three, right?” His lips widened in a grin bright enough to mirror Aran’s. “I’d like to visit all those bars one day. Maybe he has recommendations.”

“Ugh. Drunk people. Drunk, stupid, smelly people.” Aran let the cake drop to his hand and took a bite, “I do want to go to Antiva. Josie said I could come next summer.”

“Oh, right! That’s grand. She showed me some photos from her place there the other day. Looks nice.” He took a bite from his cake, studying Aran. “So, uh… how’s things with you two?”

Aran snorted. “She asked me if I was sure. I said I was. She was cool.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m not a great kisser. No great loss.”

Tristan stared at him for a quick moment, his cake forgotten in his mouth. He swallowed hard, glancing away. “You, uh-” He scratched the light stubble on his cheek. His face felt flushed again when he thought of the kiss they’d shared under the willow tree. It’d been little more than a week since then. At times, it felt like ages had passed. Others, Tristan could almost feel his lips on his. Warm and soft. Sweet. The subtle taste of the punch on his tongue. His tongue-

He felt that stirring again, that heat coiling in his core, and he cleared his throat, flushing even more. Maker, something was clearly very wrong with him. Aran was his brother. His best mate. Surely it was just his imagination. There was nothing going on. It was just these dreams he’d been having. And those meant nothing- nothing at all. It would pass soon enough. He hoped.

“You’re not a bad kisser,” he said, biting the last of his cake. Merely stating a fact. Nothing more.

“Sure, not bad, I guess. Just not great.” He passed the cake back and forth between his hands. “I tried to look up-” he wrinkled his nose, looking at his hands. “There’s not a lot of useful information. About anything.”

“Oh.” Tristan swallowed again. “What do you, uh… what were you looking for? Can I help?”

“It’s just-” He glanced up, blinking. “What do you mean, help?”

“Well-” Tristan started, blinking back at him. “You could- you could tell me about it. Or, you know-” His heart thumped treacherously in his throat- could Aran see it? He wetted his lip. “Practice. If you want.”

“Aye?” Aran lifted his brows. “Would you? I found a bunch of lists and what, but more than half of the videos are trash or-” He crossed his eyes, “Other things. Practice would help.” He smiled brightly. Too brightly? “For Hazren,” he added, scrubbing his hand through his hair. 

Tristan let out a soft chuckle, the ball of tension in his stomach dissolving. Somewhat. “Yeah. For Hazren. He must know every trick in the book.” He dusted his palms on his knees, brushed the cake crumbs off his lips. “Right,” he said, turning to face him. “Do you want to, uh… now, or…?” He lifted his brows.

“Did you want to?” Aran itched the side of his nose. “You already did once. You don’t have to. If- you know-”

“No, I want to. I do. Do you want to?”

“I’ve been wanting-” he rolled his eyes. “I just thought it might be weird. It’s not weird, is it?”

“Uh…” So he’d been wanting… what? To kiss him? The thought alone sent Tristan’s pulse fluttering. “It’s not weird,” he said quickly. “It’s just practice.”

“Right.” Aran nodded, biting his lip. “That’s- right. That’s- It’s like studying. Because… because it is.”

“Yeah. Or- or like fencing. The more you do it, the better you get. You know. Muscle memory and-” he dabbed his lip with his tongue, “- all that. Yeah.”

“Right. Aye. That.” He glanced away and glanced back, “Did you want to now?”

“Sure,” Tristan nodded. “Sure.” He slid closer to him. “Okay. You ready?”

“I want to- You did the starting last time.” His tongue darted out to his lips. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Okay.” He leaned close, brows drawn, tongue caught between his teeth in thought until he was hovering scant inches away, exhaling unsteady little puffs of air against Tristan’s lips. “Still good?”

His breath on his skin sent a sharp pang of want through him. He let out a slow breath. “Mmhmm.”

Aran tilted his head slightly, rubbing his lips lightly against Tristan’s own. The barest of touches, then firmer, his fingers leaving a trail of rough grit as they skimmed up Tristan’s arm. “Still?”

“Yes,” Tristan nodded, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He leaned forward, his lips parting to close over Aran’s. Oh, that was good. That was really good. Plush and soft, just as he remembered. He brushed his tongue over Aran’s bottom lip, tasting the salt there, the sweetness of the cakes. Juniper and blueberries, a speck of sand that was still clinging there from before, when he’d brushed his fingers over his mouth- his fingers that were now slowly trailing up his arm. Tristan sighed, shifting closer, slowly, slowly coaxing his mouth open for his tongue to slip through, to twine with his and- oh, his tongue was even sweeter than his lips. His palm was sliding up Aran’s arm before he knew it, smoothing over his shoulder, still warm from the bite of the sun. Little drops of water glowing on his skin, mingling with his freckles, gold and copper and honey brown and-

He pulled back, blinking when he realised his fingers were tangled in Aran’s hair. His gaze strayed down to his lap- and he immediately wished it hadn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. “Uh- Aran?”

“Uh huh,” Aran’s eyes were closed, lashes fluttering vaguely against his cheeks. His fingers at Tristan’s shoulder were playing a strange, lazy drum beat, tapping and dancing over his shoulderblade. “Still good?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” he swallowed. “It’s good. Very-” He paused, wincing. “Okay. Don’t look down, right, but if you do, don’t-” His pulse was beating hard in his throat. His upper lip felt damp with sweat. “It’s fine. It does that. Sometimes. I mean- all the time. I mean- yeah. Okay.”

Aran blinked, brows lifting, “What does-” He glanced down. Opened his mouth. Shut it. “Oh.” He ran his tongue over his lips while his entire focus shifted exactly where Tristan had specifically told him not to look. 

Tristan was sure that if his cheeks got any hotter, he would burst into flames. His pulse was now an insistent buzzing in his ears. This was the worst idea he’d had in a while. What had he been thinking, practicing with him when wearing nothing but his swim shorts? Now Aran would think he was a creep. A- a lecher. Was he? Was he a creep? He was clearly _something,_ and that something wasn’t very good, judging by Aran’s reaction. 

Aran blinked. “Me, too.” He glanced up, his ears red. “Pain, eh?”

“Oh.” Tristan took in a slow breath, holding his gaze. Through sheer will, it seemed. He would not. Look. Down. “Yeah. A pain. Happens all the time.”

“Yeah.” Aran blinked slowly. “Yeah, same. That was- I mean, before, that was- uh- that.”

“Right. Yeah. It- it was.” Tristan licked his bottom lip. Aran’s taste was still there, subtle. He wanted more, he realised. More of it. But why? “Do you- uh- are you okay? Do you want to stop?”

“Having them all the time? Yes. It’s bloody inconvenient.” He smiled nervously. “Uh. But, I mean, it’s random, right? So it’s- uh- I mean, it’s just stimulus. Like wind. So. If they’re gonna be there anyway? Just- I mean, did you want to stop? I’m fine.” He cleared his throat, “I’m more than fine. Uh… if you are, that is?”

"I'm okay." Tristan's heartbeat had eased somewhat, though the tightness in his core was still there. Stronger than ever. He glanced at Aran's lips before looking up into his eyes again. They were still close- too close, by many accounts. He leaned forward, brushing his nose over his, breathing evenly, then let his lips touch his again. Yes. Good. It was good. More now. 

He flicked his tongue over Aran's lower lip, closing his eyes when Aran's tongue darted out to meet his own. A shiver ran down his spine, a tingling sensation that made the tightness even worse- or better?- but he brushed the thought away. This was practice. Just practice. And Aran didn't mind if his shorts were tenting, so what was the matter? They were friends. Best friends. Friends didn't judge each other over things like that. Did friends kiss each other like that? Sure. They must do. Not that he would go around asking- but, fuck, did it feel good. Soft and gentle and- Aran's breath on his skin- their chests almost touching- his fingers on his shoulder, caressing his shoulderblade- "That's nice," he sighed, leaning into his touch despite himself. "That's really nice."

“Aye, it is,” Aran murmured against his lips. “It is,” he repeated, his voice rough and tight like it had been after he’d raced ahead of him and crowed his victory at him. Breathless and raw. Low in the way it sometimes was these days, dropping into his chest. Tristan could feel his chest, feel the warmth of him almost touching him, and the sun beating down on them. “I was reading about what to do with the hands,” he licked Tristan’s lower lip. “It’s healthy, right? Supposed to be. Whole list of stuff it’s good for, touching. Can- Do you want to try something?” 

Tristan shivered with the lingering feel of Aran's tongue on his lip. "Yeah," Tristan nodded, breathless. "Yeah, it's-" What was it he told him again? Something about hands. He blinked his eyes open, biting his lip. "Sure. Yes. Let's try. Anything you-" he cleared his throat. "Okay."

“Right.” Aran shifted onto his knees, his fingers tightening on Tristan’s skin as he moved closer- Closer again, how much closer could they get? Then their chests were pressed together and Aran’s arms were around him, skin to skin, the grit of sand, the dots of cool where water lingered- Hugging, just hugging, they’d hugged hundreds of times. Friends hugged. Aran shivered against him, his fingers trailing over both Tristan’s shoulders as he nudged his lips against his again. “Contact,” he breathed, “is supposed to make it better. Is- Is it?” Tristan could feel Aran’s skin, tight and smooth, cold and warm, pressing closer. He’d set himself to the side, so their hips were pressed against each other without - those - in the way, but- “Is it?” 

"It-" Tristan blinked again, wide eyed. His skin felt hot where they touched and his hands... what was he supposed to do with his hands? He could hug him back, he guessed. He could try that. "It is." He kissed him back, tilting his head to the side to get a better angle, to press closer still. "It's really nice," he whispered, although he was sure he'd said that a couple times already. "What do I do with my hands?"

“You just- you just touch… whatever.” He shivered again, flexing his fingers at his shoulders. “Here-“ His palm coasted down his back, “Or here, or-“ Aran’s breath hitched- or was that his own? “Wherever-“ His _hands-_ careful and testing, moving over his back and sides- Aran swallowed, looking at him with wide eyes the color of the sky at noon, “I- I’d like you to. If you want.”

"You would?" So Aran wanted him to touch him. Tristan wanted that, too. Very much. Was it too much? Or was it not enough? He took in a slow breath, focusing on the soft breeze that was drifting in, chilling the droplets on his back. Better than thinking about the warmth of Aran's skin, pressed against his own. His hands moved on their own, his palms smoothing slowly up Aran's back. Soft skin. Taut muscles. The ladder of his ribs. He could count them, one by one. "How's that?" he asked quietly. "Is that okay?"

Aran bit his lip, breathing sharply. “Uh huh.” He swallowed. “Aye. It’s nice. It-“ he pressed his lips together, his fingers flexing, calloused fingertips, sand and sun- “It’s really-“ He ran his tongue over his teeth, looking dazed. “I like it. Do- Do you like it?”

"I do," Tristan breathed, "yes-" He surged forth, their noses almost bumping before their lips met once more. His hand trailed further up Aran's back, following his spine, feeling the sharp bone at the nape of his neck. Tristan sighed softly, his tongue tracing the curve of Aran's teeth, fingers slithering in his damp hair, his other hand on the small of his back pulling him closer against him. "I like it-" he whispered, breathless, "I- I like it-"

“Aye,” Aran panted against his lips. His hip shifted against Tristan’s, his breath short and rough, and Aran’s hand slipped down his side, grasping his side and slid up the side of his chest. Up. A quick rusty sound out of his throat again. “Can I- Can I-“

Tristan hummed, nodding, not breaking the kiss. He wasn't sure he would have been able to stop, even if he'd wanted to. Which, he didn't. He didn't want to stop. Maker, it felt _good._ He couldn't remember anything else feeling like this, and he couldn't remember their last kiss being like this, either. "Yes," he panted, "anything. Anything you like."

Then Aran’s fingers were brushing past his nipple, his palm dragging up his chest, until he was cupping the side of his neck, his cheek. Grasping, pulling him closer, _feeling_ him. “Good- Good-“ he croaked against his lips, licking his tongue, kissing him more and more and it only felt better- more- Warm, he was so warm and his hands were so quick and his lips were so soft- Another rough sigh against his lips, then Aran was breaking the kiss, squeezing his eyes shut, panting and flushed.

Tristan's eyes fluttered open, his breath rough in his throat. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting him there- and coughed softly to cover the shiver that ran up his spine. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice raw and hoarse.

“Feels weird-“ he ducked his head, his face all bright and breathless. “I’m- Maybe I'm doing it wrong.” His voice cracked on the last word, diving down into his chest. He was still holding onto him, tremors in his hands. 

"What?" Tristan edged back to get a good look at him. "What happened?"

“Everything’s- everything’s all-“ He bit his lip. “Sorry.” He swallowed. “Sorry-“ he flinched, shaking. “Upside down.” 

Tristan frowned, the warm, tingling sensation that had spread through him only moments before turning sour in his stomach. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, his back straightening. "Do you want to stop?"

“No- yes- no- I don’t know-“ Aran squeezed his face up tight. “It’s like an ice cream headache in my stomach. You didn’t- I think it’s- Maybe I have a cramp. Ate too much.”

"Oh." Tristan swallowed, glancing away for a moment. His hands were still on Aran's back, moving every time his ribcage expanded with his breaths. Was he supposed to leave them there? Or pull back? Or… "Would you like some water?" His gaze flicked towards the chest. "I'm sure we have some in there."

“No!” his eyes flew wide, his hands tightening on Tristan's shoulder. “Uh…” He cleared his throat. “It's okay."

"Okay... right," Tristan said, perplexed. "Is there, uh… is there anything else I can do? For your-" he glanced down, then swiftly brought his gaze up to Aran's eyes again, "-for your stomach? Or… or anything else, really." He bit his lip down hard. Looking down was a bad idea. It sent things tightening everywhere- how much tighter could they bloody get- and Aran's hands on his shoulders weren't helping. He let out a slow breath through his nose. "Right. Tell me what you need."

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Aran bit his lip, the unsteady heat of his breaths brushing over Tristan’s neck and chest like fingertips. “Tris... you don’t really think I fancy a statue, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Part 2 will be up soon!


	7. Of Sharks and Marlins (2/2)

Tristan gazed at Aran, his lips so close to his. They were flushed, slightly bruised from their kisses, glistening. His teeth flashed white over his bottom lip when he bit it, looking away from him. Aran was avoiding his eyes, and his cheeks were bright pink, getting ruddier by the second. Perhaps he really was feeling ill. 

“No,” Tristan replied, perplexed, in answer to Aran’s question. “I don’t think you fancy a statue. That was a joke, wasn’t it?" 

“Yeah.” Aran swallowed. “Yeah. It’s a joke.” His chin was pressed to his chest. “Do you want to keep… practicing? For when you like someone?”

“I do. Do you?”

“Aye.” Aran glanced up at him then away again. “Not- _right now_. But- aye.” He dabbed his lips with his tongue. “If that’s- Aye.”

Tristan nodded quickly, although his gut twisted in disappointment. Why didn’t Aran want to kiss him now? He couldn’t think of what he had done wrong. He frowned and looked away- he shouldn't have been frowning, he knew that, Tilly always told him he looked like a child when he did, but try as he might, he couldn't stop it. It was such an odd feeling, not knowing what Aran was thinking. Usually he could always tell, even if neither of them spoke, even if they just exchanged a glance from across the classroom or a crowded room. Now, they were pressed closer than ever before, yet it was like a gulf was separating them. "Right," he mumbled. "Okay."

“I think it might- might be too- um- sandy.” Aran rubbed his nose on Tristan’s shoulder. “Okay?”

"Sure. Yeah." Tristan sniffed, biting his lip to distract himself from Aran's touch. "We don't have to if you don't want to. Not now, or… or any other time, really." He fixed his gaze beyond the cave, trying not to let his feelings show. "Did you try the things you wanted?"

“Some of it,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against his skin. “Not all of it. Was it okay?”

"Yeah. It was good. You're good." Tristan leaned back on his palms, resisting the urge to press closer to him, to rest the side of his head against his. To nuzzle his ear. To breathe him in. It wasn’t nice of Aran, he thought, to touch him like this, to sit so close to him, if he didn’t want to kiss him. It made thinking very difficult. "So, uh..." Tristan started hesitantly, "who are you practicing for? You never told me."

“You don’t know?”

"No. Should I?"

Aran lifted his face, his freckled nose creased with a disappointment of wrinkles. “No. I guess not.”

"Okay. So who is it?"

Aran rolled his eyes. “Look- Right. So-“ he squinted at him. “So-“ he frowned, glaring at Tristan’s shoulder for a beat. “I-“ he grumbled under his breath, lifted his gaze again with a scowl and leaned in. He breathed against his lips. Kissed him, once, twice- quick and soft - then looked away. “So. How was it? I’ve been practicing.”

Tristan took in a sharp breath. His thoughts were blurry. Aran had said he didn't want to practice anymore; why was he kissing him now? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. "I told you it's good. You're good.” He frowned, studying him. "Why are you not telling me? I don't understand. Are you worried I'll tell or something? Wait." He squinted. "Is it one of my friends?"

Aran stared at him. Just stared. Why? Why was he staring at him? _Was_ it one of his friends? “No,” he said finally as he lifted his brows. “It’s not one of your stupid, ridiculous friends.”

"My friends are no less ridiculous than anyone else's friends." Tristan glared at him. 

“They absolutely are. They are awful.”

"Fuck's sake-" he rolled his eyes. "Who the Void is it, then? Look, if you don't want to tell me, just say- ‘Tristan, I don't want to tell you. I want to keep my secrets to myself because I don't trust you enough’- or whatever your reason is."

Aran’s brows drew together. “Tristan. I already told you. I’m shite at keeping secrets, but you keep bloody asking. Now stop being an arse about it.”

"You told me fuck all! You just said my friends are stupid and awful, so I know it's not one of them, thank you very much. So that narrows it down to the rest of the Cross. Bloody great." 

“Did you hit your head?” Aran crossed his eyes. 

"No," Tristan scowled, "my head's fine. Did _you_ hit your head?"

“I’m winding up to wallop yours.”

"I just asked a simple question-"

“Aye, and I’ve bloody well said. It’s not my fault if you don’t like the answer. I’m not asking for anything. I only told you because you’re a belligerent numpty. Now do you want to play the bloody board game or not?”

"What? What was your answer? When did you give the bloody answer? Because I clearly wasn't here when you did. Maker's mercy-" Tristan threw his head back and let out a frustrated growl. "Just forget I asked anything, alright? If I knew you were going to fuck with me for a day, I wouldn't have asked. You can keep your bloody secrets-"

“I- Me? I-? Did-” Aran puffed out his cheeks like an angry fish. “You’re a- Ugh-” He rapped his knuckles against the side of Tristan’s head. “Where did they take it? When your idiot friends kidnapped your brain, where did they take it? Are they holding it for ransom? Did they eat it?”

Tristan grabbed his wrist, glaring at him. "My brain's just _fine_. Yours obviously isn't. Saying you've answered something when you've said nothing. Are you taking the piss? What's the matter with you? Am I not good enough for this precious knowledge to be bestowed upon me? Are- are you having an affair with the Teyrn or something?"

“Piss off,” Aran grunted, shoving to his feet. He tugged at his arm, scowling. “Let go. You don’t have to like me back. I don’t expect you to. I’m not bloody asking. You don’t have to be a sodding wanker about it.”

Tristan opened his mouth, ready to lash back, when his breath froze in his lungs. The sounds of the waves and the wind seemed like coming from somewhere far away. He stared dumbly at Aran, at his face that was flushed with anger, his damp curls still clinging to his forehead. "You-" he croaked, his throat as dry as a chip. He swallowed, blinking. "You like me?"

“Ah, very funny, I’m rolling.” Aran rolled his eyes, his cheeks stained red. “Don’t take it personally. You’re fit is all. Maker knows you’re a pain in the arse every other bloody way.”

Tristan gaped at him. He was _fit_? Him? He- He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut. He must have misheard. "What?" he asked, quietly. So quietly, he could barely hear his own voice over the buzzing in his ears.

The gulls in the rocks above them cawed and dove. The sun was baking them. The water lapped at the sand and rock of the cove. He felt Aran’s finger poking his shoulder. “Tris? You in there?” he asked softly. “You okay? You’ve gone all peely-wally. Want water?”

"What?" Tristan squeezed his eyes harder. No. That wasn't- no. It couldn't be. It wasn't- that couldn't be what he was feeling. If Aran liked him, did that mean Tristan liked him, too? So, were they not friends anymore, brothers, best mates? What _were_ they?

His head was spinning. He let Aran's wrist go, pressed his palms on the sand. "What?"

“Okay, stay there. Just stay. Stay still.” He heard Aran run through the sand, splash into the water and return. Then the towel, sea salt and freezing, landed across his back. “Don’t breathe too deep or you’ll pass out. Just- give the cold a second. Water,” he muttered to himself and darted off again. The next time he came back, he had a bottle of warm water and was holding it under his face. “Drink slow. Fucking sun. Hey. I got you, mate. You’re going to be fine. Remember, I got this last summer. Just a little cold and hydration, okay? I’ll make a shade, right. I think we still have that umbrella here somewhere.”

Tristan peeled his eyes open, watching in a daze as Aran stood up again and went to the chest. He liked him? Aran, his brother, his best friend- he _liked_ him? Did he like him like Cardew liked Martina, and took her on dates and bought her flowers and chocolates? Or like Johnston liked Bianchi, and went to her place every Saturday night to watch films and-

Maker, he felt sick. His stomach was so tight, it was roiling. He slowly pushed himself upright where he sat, following Aran's movements, the bottle half forgotten in his hand. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Aran grunted, digging into the sand and wedging the end of the massive umbrella into the pit, covering it back up again. “I thought you were being an ass. I didn’t realize you were having a whole thing happen. Bloody Void. Bloody deep. Drink your water.” He pressed his hand to the back of Tristan’s head as he opened the umbrella. They’d brought it out, thinking they could use it for a sail for the boat they’d built; it had been useless as a sail, but they’d once used it for a sudden rainstorm. Huddled together as the thunder cracked overhead. “Don’t tell Tilly; she’ll feckin’ murder me.” He hunkered down under the umbrella beside him, as he had in the storm, knees up to his chest, patting his back. “How’s it going, mate? More cold?” 

"I'm fine," Tristan said, his voice rough and grating in his throat. "I'm good." He slowly unscrewed the bottle cap, watching the waves as he tipped the bottle over his lips. The water was warm and just a touch stale when it reached his tongue. They'd have to bring in more. But- when would they come there again? Would they at all? Would they be spending time alone now, just the two of them? And as what? As friends? As- as- 

He winced when his stomach tightened even more. He took a long sip of water, swallowing thickly. He thought he could still taste Aran's lips on his own, on his tongue- oh, no. Oh, Maker. Oh. How had this happened? It was his fault, clearly. He had asked him first. He was the one that started this whole thing. And those dreams he'd been having- his own bloody mind turning against him- and now this. Aran liked him. Tristan liked him, too. Probably. No, that was not it, couldn't be- but what if it was? And Aran- he said he liked him only because he was "fit". What did that even mean? If he stopped being fit, would he not like him anymore? Could they still be friends, like they used to? What in the bloody Void was going on?

Tristan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, raked a hand through his hair. Took another long sip from the bottle before screwing the bottle cap back on and planting it in the sand. "I'm fine," he said again, hugging his knees to his chest. "Thanks for the water."

“Smelled a bit funny,” Aran rested his chin on his knee. “But it’s probably fine. Seal was there and all. I was reading about ways the pirates used to keep stores. We could dig a pit with a trench around it and let the sea water cool what we put in it. Fall, it might stay cold enough for ice cream. You want to try it?”

Tristan let out a slow, tremulous breath, gaze fixed on the sea. "You want to come here again?" he asked quietly. "With me?"

“Uh… yeah?” he patted his back. “It’s okay, mate. You feel shite now. It’ll pass. Takes a beat is all. Just breathe slow and shallow, right.”

"I do feel shite," Tristan said, turning to look at him. "I don't know if it'll pass.” He paused, rubbing his temples. "What's going to happen now? What are we supposed to do?"

“Well, when I had heatstroke, I just had to drink a lot of water the next few days. I don’t think you have a sunburn, though, so it shouldn’t be as bad. Get some electrolytes. Maybe when you get home-”

"No, that's not what I asked." Tristan shook his head, looking away. He picked up a thin piece of driftwood, idly poking at the sand. "I'm talking about- about _us_ ," he muttered. "You and me. What are we going to do?"

Aran drew a target in the sand. “What are you talking about? Like tomorrow? Or- do you not think you can swim back to the other beach?”

"No. No. You said-" Tristan took a sharp breath. Stayed silent for a long moment, worrying his lip. Perhaps he shouldn't say anything. Perhaps he could just ignore the whole thing, pretend it never happened. Aran didn't seem too bothered by it. But no. This was too important. He had to be forthright. He had to figure this out. He had to know. "You said you like me." 

“Aye.”

Tristan shot a sideways glance at him, then looked back over the water. "Okay," he said slowly. "So. What happens now?"

“You said you wanted to keep practicing for when you find someone you like.” Aran wiggled his toes into the sand. “Did I make it weird? Do you not want to now?”

"I... I don't know." Tristan smoothed his palms over his shins, pressed his chest more firmly against his legs. His eyes were burning, and he scrubbed at them, sniffing. Perhaps he really did have a heatstroke. "Are you just doing it for me, then? So I can practice for someone else?" Maker, why did that very thought feel like a punch in the gut? He bit his lip, took in a deep breath. "So, if I find someone I like, what will happen with us, then? What if- what if I don't find someone else? What if I don't want to?"

“That’s a lot of questions,” Aran scrunched up his nose. “I hadn’t really gotten that far, mate.”

Tristan frowned, looking away. "Yeah. Lots of questions." He picked up the piece of driftwood again. Drawing circles in the sand was much easier than looking at him. "How do we go about finding answers? Do we just… wait? See if they answer themselves?”

“I don’t know. You just- you asked. You said, if your hands get clammy and your heart races and you want to be closer, then that means you fancy someone. So I do that- I feel that- and I like kissing you,” he itched the side of his nose, leaving a little rough of sand in his wake. “It’s good, and you like it, you said, so I just-“ He shrugged, burying his feet in the sand, combing the beach up and over each one like little graves. “I don’t know. I’d like to keep kissing you. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay.”

"How are you not worried about this?” His voice cracked, his eyes were burning again. He scrubbed at them angrily, cursing when he got sand in them. “Friends don't like each other like that. We're not supposed to like each other like that. If we do, what are we then? Are we not friends anymore?"

“What?” Aran’s eyes flew wide. “What? Why can’t we be friends? We’re- what- No. I- I don’t know. I can’t help it. I tried. I tried not to- I really did. I don’t know why, but this is just… how it is, I guess. That’s- why is that bad? Why can’t we stay friends?” 

"I don't know! I don't know, Aran! I don't know anything!" He was weeping in earnest now, tears rolling down his cheeks, and there was nothing he could do to stop himself. "My hands also get clammy and my heart races and I think about you, and I don't know how to stop it or- or why it's happening. So-" he wiped his eyes, sniffling, "what happens if we keep kissing? What if neither of us finds someone, and we just keep doing it? Are we- are we boyfriends now?"

“What does that mean?” Aran crossed his eyes. “Like, I don’t want to carry your books around or anything.”

"Oh, for- it's not about carrying _books_ ," Tristan huffed. "Are we _dating?_ Holding hands and making out and- I don't know, whatever it is boyfriends do." He blinked at him, brushing the back of his hand over his nose. "Are we?"

“I don’t know.” He bit his lip. “Did you want to hold hands?”

Tristan gaped at him for a moment. Opened his mouth. Shut it. "I-" he swallowed thickly. "I like holding your hand."

“Okay, so.” He shifted his feet, making cracks in the sand, and held out his hand. “Here.”

Tristan glanced at his palm, then at him. His heart fluttered awkwardly as his own hand moved towards it, but then stopped midway, hovering in the air between them. "Are you doing it just because I said I like it?" he muttered.

“What?” Aran squinted at him. “What do you like?”

"Holding your hand." 

“Mine’s clammy, yours is clammy. Clams do this.” He slapped his palm against Tristan’s and lifted his brows, “There. Done.”

Tristan blinked. Aran's hand was warm against his, gritty with sand. He glanced at their joined palms, then gave Aran's a small squeeze. Just to see what it would feel like. "Do you like holding my hand?"

“Sure.” Aran rested his chin on his knee, “Only stopped from when we were younger because your stupid friends said it was dumb.”

"Did you?" Tristan scrunched his nose. "Johnston's an ass. I'll go slap him upside his head for that tomorrow." He smirked, threading his fingers through Aran's. "It's nice. Should do it more often."

“Okay.” He squeezed Tristan’s hand, staring out at the water. “We can keep being friends, too, right?” 

Tristan's smile widened, warmth spreading through him from where their fingers touched. "Yeah," he said softly. "We can. I want to.” Aran was still gazing at the waves, the breeze combing through his curls that were just starting to dry. Tristan idly brushed his thumb over the back of his hand, following his gaze. "You know what we should do?"

“Make out?”

"Do- do you want to?"

Aran squinted at him out of the corner of his eye. “Kind of. Yeah. What were you going to say?”

"I was… uh…" What _was_ he going to say? He always got distracted when he thought about kissing him. Tristan threaded his fingers through his hair, scratched his head. "Oh, right! Okay. So." He shifted slightly to face him. "We should promise each other that we'll always be friends. No matter what happens. I think that's fair. Right? Because- this is different. A little. But we're still friends. And I'd like us to stay friends, even if... I don't know. Even if other things happen." He lifted his eyebrows. "What do you think?"

“Obviously. Right? I mean: obviously we’ll always be friends. Because it’d just- suck not to, huh?”

"Yeah," Tristan nodded. "It would. Massively. Although you're kind of a massive pain in the arse. So it might not actually be that bad."

“What?” he cracked into a wide grin. “Me? I’m the pain in the arse? You’re the worst!”

"I'm the best at everything and you know it. Also, I'm older than you so I know better."

“You’re older and creakier. And you suck at swimming.”

"I suck at swimming?" Tristan stared at him wide eyed. "You won once, just once, and now I suck at swimming? I can beat you with my eyes closed, and don't you deny it."

“Your time has passed,” Aran smirked. “You’re over the hill. Might as well bury you now.” He kicked the sand off his feet onto Tristan’s. “We’ll put you under like the Nevarrans do.”

"If I'm getting buried, you're three feet deep already." Tristan kicked the sand back onto Aran's feet, and more besides, then scooped up a handful and tossed it over his legs. "There we go! Looking better already!"

“You’re so done,” he laughed, shoving Tristan over and scooping sand onto him. “Three feet, my arse. I’ll put you under like pirate rum. Leave you here for some unsuspecting paddler to find.” He dropped a handful of sand on top of Tristan’s head with a broad grin. “Oh, there goes the hair- ouch.”

"What the fuck-" Tristan shook his head, sand falling on his shoulders like rain. "You're _so_ dead," he growled, pushing him down on the sand and climbing on his back. He scooped a large handful of sand and tossed it on his head, rubbing it in. "How's that? Hm? You like that now?"

Aran snorted, “So nice! Ooh, nice head massage. You might have found your trade, Tris. You can work down the barber.” He reached back and prodded at Tristan’s side. “Give people sand scrubs.”

Tristan laughed, giving Aran's head a last, vigorous rub before getting off him. "You're an idiot," he said with a grin, sitting down beside him. "If I ever work at the barber's, you're the first person I'm giving a sand scrub."

“You did that already, thanks. I’ve had my share of spa treatments for the next decade.” Aran rolled onto his back, stretching. “You feeling a little less peely-wally?”

“Yeah. I’m good," he said, shaking the sand from his hair. “How’s your stomach? Better?” 

“Yeah, something about you looking like you were going to keel over cleared that right up.” He tossed a handful of sand at Tristan. “You’re sure you’re okay? Water or something? I don’t want to haul you back to the beach.”

“If anyone’s getting dragged back, it’s you,” Tristan scoffed, shoving him playfully. He leaned back on his palms and took a deep breath. “Thanks for the water. And the shade.” He stretched his legs out long, wiggling his toes just an inch away from where the waves crashed. “We should try to fix that hole in the dinghy tomorrow. It keeps getting water in.”

Aran nodded, yawning. “I still think a bit of super glue and some of that load of driftwood we’ve got would do the trick. I don’t see why we have to replace the whole bloody board.”

“Sure,” Tristan shugged. “That could work. Should last until the end of the summer. But we’ll probably need to replace it next year.” 

“Next year’s fine.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Wanna swim back?”

“You want to go back? Already?” Aran squinted at him, blinking sand out of one eye. “You’re in that much of a hurry to lose again?”

Tristan clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Your confidence will be your undoing one of these days, mark my words.” He dug his feet in the sand. “I’m alright to stay if you are.” 

“Good choice.” He patted his back, then snickered, brushing at the towel. “Sanded it again.”

Tristan swatted his hand away, then picked the towel off his back and threw it at him. “A sandy towel for a sandy Aran. A match made in bloody heaven.”

“Beach Aran,” he corrected him, catching the towel and bunching it into a pillow for his head. 

“Right. Sorry,” Tristan chuckled, laying down with his arm under his head. “I think I can be called beach Tristan now, too. Thanks to you.”

“I like beach Tristan.” 

“You do?” Tristan’s heart fluttered in his chest. “And I like beach Aran.”

Aran’s smile widened, slipping sideways. “Aye?”

“Yeah.” He shifted closer to him, kicking some sand on his feet. “You know what I like more than that?”

“What?”

“ _Mud_ Aran,” he grinned. “Like that time we wrestled and I won and tossed you in that muddy pit.”

Aran rolled his eyes and groaned. “Here I was going to let you kiss me again, but no. You had to bring up that blighted pit again.”

Tristan blinked at him. "You were going to what?"

“Yeah- oh well.” He sighed, lightly patting his arm. “Enjoy your many victories.”

Tristan stared for a moment, then tsked, looking away, his cheeks growing hotter. Whether Aran wanted to kiss him or not, it was the same to him. No difference whatsoever.

“We could still practice, though,” Aran murmured. “You know. For when my boyfriend decides to be less of a douche.”

He turned to look at him, his breath catching in his throat. His _boyfriend-_ why did that word make his heart race, his head feel light? "Sure," he said slowly. "We could practice for when my boyfriend learns to lose gracefully."

“Uh huh. We’re going to be practicing for a while, I think.” He bumped his chin against Tristan’s. “That okay?”

"Yeah," Tristan sighed. "More than okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3


	8. butterflies pinned to the wall (1/2)

##  [Aran]

_Council 15:37, Fall_

Aran absently tapped his heel to his toes, his feet resting on the bench by Tristan’s hip as he read over his lunch tray. He’d traded his pudding to Tristan in return for Tristan’s crackers. Being back in uniform always took some getting used to; Aran didn’t like the tight collars or the sweater vests or the stupid loafers that tried to fall off of him every time he ran. But Tristan pulled the uniform off the same way he did everything. It was almost unfair how he seemed to elevate anything he wore; even frowning to himself, with his headphones on, the cord dangling past the collar of his vest, he looked like he should be in a catalog. 

Sharp and handsome and his. His boyfriend. His best friend. His. 

Aran had just dragged his attention back into the fifth chapter of his Tevene reading assignment when he heard the growing cackle of Tristan’s hyenas. He nudged Tristan’s thigh, glancing past him when Tristan lifted his gaze. “Incoming,” Aran winked and went back to his book. 

Or tried to as he was shoved down the bench and had his hair ruffled by Johnston. “Hey, squirt.” 

“Jackal,” Aran grunted, ducking his head out of the way, dragging his feet back under the table as Cardew took the space he’d comfortably been using as a footrest. 

“Hello, hello!” Penwith’s booming voice cut through the blissful quiet- or what had been quiet only moments before. He clapped Tristan hard on the shoulder and got a disgruntled stare in return. “What are you up to, man? Studying for a change?”

“Trying to,” Tristan rolled his eyes. “Where were you?”

“At the gym,” Johnston replied, sitting on the opposite bench, his elbows resting against its back. “Coach has given us the keys for lunch hour.”

“Ah. Forgot about that. Were you at the gym, too?” Tristan asked Penwith.

“Me? Oh, no. I was at the pool.” The other boy tossed his bag on the bench and sat next to Johnston, pushing his damp dark blonde hair back. “The race is in two months. I need to catch up.”

“Good luck with that,” Johnston sneered. 

Their voices faded into the periphery as they began talking about the polo match they had coming up in a couple weeks. It was only a practice match against the team from Balmoral, but it would set the tone for the season. Aran knew that, because as soon as the match date had been announced in the pre-season, Tristan had started working out more. Hours swimming in the sea every day the last couple weeks of summer. Brilliant, the number of trips they’d made to and from the Cove. Tristan was getting to be like a shark in the water, which was both annoying and amazing. And since school had started the week before, he’d been using the rowing machine at the school gym and that was just… 

Aran bit his lip, trying to focus on the chatter between  Lucius and his aunt Byrrhena in his book. Only Tristan’s back was already getting  _ harder _ when he held him, when they kissed, and that was so very good. And while Aran had never once wanted to spend any amount of time in that sweat-drenched weight room, he was finding he didn’t much mind spending an hour or so each day studying there - or more accurately, watching Tristan on that machine. The way his arms moved. The tension in his back. Aran was starting to have dreams about weight machines. He huffed, staring at the page. Weight machines and bloody declensions. 

“Oy,” Johnston kicked Tristan under the table, “haven’t seen you at the gym in a while, Trevelyan. Don’t want you getting soft right before the match now, eh.”

Tristan shrugged. “I work out after school.”

“Do you, though?” Cardew said with a wry grin, sliding closer on the bench. “Do you?”

Tristan gave him a bored frown. “Have something to say, Cardew?”

“I thought _ you _ would have something to say.” He wiggled his eyebrows at him.

“That he does.” Johnston leaned forward on the table. “Right. Spit it out. Who is it?”

“Who’s who? What are you talking about?”

Instead of a response, Cardew’s grin only got wider. 

Penwith laughed, his rosy cheeks brightening. “Cardew here thinks you may have found yourself… how should I put it… some very pleasant company.”

“A bird,” Cardew said with a smirk. “Trevelyan’s found himself a bird.”

“A what?!” Tristan’s face flushed, his eyes widening in shock. “What sort of ridiculous nonsense is this? Don’t you have anything better to occupy yourselves with other than- than idle gossip?”

Johnston let out a loud guffaw, slapping the table. 

Aran grabbed his water bottle as it toppled; he spun the lid back on, rolling his eyes.

“Told you!” Johnston turned to Cardew.

“Told you first,” Cardew said smoothly, leaning back against the bench. “Should have bet on it. A shame.”

Tristan shifted on the bench to face him, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, I’ll give you something to bet on. How long will it take me to kick your arse? A minute? Two? Fred, keep time.”

“Now, now," Penwith said, "there’s no need to-”

“Damn." Cardew's huff was sharp and mocking. “It’s  _ that  _ serious? Got you by the balls already, has she?” He nudged Aran with his foot. “So. Who is it? I bet he’s told you. Is it Statton? She’s had her eyes on him since second form.”

“I am Nevarra,” Aran enunciated, glancing up over his book. “Leave him be, carp-face.”

“Oooh.” Johnston’s lips widened in a grin. “Be careful, mate. He bites.”

Cardew’s expression soured instantly, icy blue eyes gliding over Aran in contempt before he clicked his tongue and looked away. “Whatever. There’s probably no bird. He just stays at home by himself, fapping it out all day-” 

“You fucking idiot-”

“Just because that’s what you do, doesn’t mean everyone does,” Aran murmured, cutting Tristan short. “But thank you so much for the insight. I’m sure we all appreciate it.”

“Give up, Cardew, he’s got you there,” Johnston said, breathless with laughter. Cardew opened his mouth to retort, when Penwith promptly cut in.

“Hey, Tris, did I tell you about that book I found? It’s very good.” He shot him a bright grin. “ _ Very  _ good.”

Tristan glared at Cardew for a long moment before peeling his gaze off. “What book.”

Penwith’s grin got wider when he pulled a leather bound tome out of his bag. “Seen this?” he asked, his eyes glinting with mischief when Tristan stared blankly at it and shrugged. “You sure?”

“What the Void is it? Another history book? Told you, I’m not interested,” Tristan rolled his eyes.

“A ‘history book’, he says,” Johnston winked at Cardew. 

“Well. It is. In a way,” Cardew replied sourly.

Tristan eyed them suspiciously. “What way?”

“The history of shagging, of course!” Johnston kicked him under the table, howling.

“Will you keep it down?” Penwith hissed at him, his face turning bright pink. “I think I saw Madame Dupris passing by a moment ago.”

“Right,” Tristan said, slapping his palms on the table and standing up, “I’m done.”

Penwith blinked at him. “Where are you going?”

“His palm’s getting lonely,” Cardew muttered darkly. He yelped when Tristan slapped him upside the head, then turned to glare at him. “Hey! What the fuck was that?”

“Appetisers,” Tristan said, pushing his sleeves back. “Ready for the main course?”

Johnston brought his fists rhythmically down on the table. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Aran scowled, shifting his tray out of harm’s way. “Maker’s tears. Look. If carp-face wants to talk about how much his wrist hurts, then we should let him.”

Cardew turned his glare to Aran. “Why don’t  _ you  _ tell us how much your bloody wrist hurts? Or are you not doing that yet?”

“Hey,” Tristan growled, punching his arm. “Back off.”

“Tris.  _ Je peux en placer une? _ ” Aran cocked a brow at Cardew, “I’m not the one with a fascination with everyone else’s fapping schedule. Or are you looking for pointers?”

“Ah! Pointers!’ Penwith tossed the book on the table. “Loads of pointers here. Care to take a look?”

Tristan scowled at him. “I don’t want to look at your bloody book-”

“Just sit your arses down, both of you,” Johnston chuckled, gesturing towards the bench. “Watching you two fight is no fun, anyway. Like watching two drunken seagulls fighting over a bag of crisps. All wings flapping and squawking.”

Aran snorted, passing a hand over his mouth. Oh, he hated when the jackal made him laugh. It was awful. “What’s the book?”

Penwith’s eyes brightened. “It’s the  _ Trecenta Voluptatis _ !” he said in a hushed voice, pushing it towards him. “Go ahead, take a look!”

Tristan rolled his eyes, pulling down his sleeves. “You’re all a bunch of idiots,” he grumbled, plopping down on the bench.

“Says the genius,” Cardew retorted, sitting down on the bench beside him. He crossed his arms before his chest, watching as Aran flipped the book open.

“This is a nice copy,” he rubbed one of the pages, feeling the thickness of the paper. “And not from the library. The illustrations are way clearer.” He wrinkled his nose, glancing up at Penwith, “Since when do you know Tevene?”

Penwith blushed. “Ah- well- I know enough to get by. Not that there’s much need for it here-” he cleared his throat.

“He’s too busy checking out those knockers to give a sod about Tevene, is what he means,” Johnston snickered, turning the book to a page close to the middle. “Good, eh, squirt? Look at those splits. That chick’s a champion.”

“Ah,” Aran itched the side of his nose. “It’s a mosaic, jackal. Not a photograph.”

“And who do you think posed for the chap that made the mosaic?”

“Based on the period and the origin, I’m going to go with an elven slave. And her comfort likely had very little to do with the pose. But that’s just me, history, common sense... Oh, and the Tevene - that’s written - beneath it.” Aran sighed, opening his packet of crackers. “But to each their own.”

Tristan’s lips curled in a smirk, while Johnston squinted at the page. “It says that? Shite. Never would have known. Good to know, squirt,” he said ruffling Aran’s hair. 

“You’d be astounded by what you can learn from words, Jackal,” he nudged the book back towards him. “Anyway, I’ve read it. And it’s not a history, Pennywise. It’s an instruction manual.”

“Is it not an historical instruction manual?” Penwith asked, picking up the book just as Tristan reached for it.

“I’ll have a look,” he said, flipping it open on a random page. “I want to see what the fuss is about.” He glanced at the illustrations with a quirked brow, then let the book fall closed. “I think I’ll maintain my original position. Not interested.”

Cardew snorted. “How long before he goes and gets his own copy? Want to bet on it, Johnston?”

“What tells you he doesn’t already have one?” Johnston replied with a grin, then nudged Aran with his elbow. “Perhaps you lent him yours,” he winked at him. “And now he’s acting all proper.”

“‘Mine’ is in the library.” Aran smiled slyly, “Though, if you want to use the book to its purpose and you learn enough Tevene to make it useful, I’ll spread the word to the girls.”

“Don’t do him any favours,” Tristan said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

“Oy! What trouble? I’m a gentleman, I am,” Johnston protested. He tossed his arm over Aran’s shoulders, leaning heavily on him. “Listen, you put in a good word or two for me, I’ll get you as many copies of the Trecenta as you like. Or a date with one of the cheerleaders. Or both! What do you say? Deal?”

“I don’t need any copies of it. And I don’t want to date someone you got for me; I’d probably catch a disease.” He squinted up at him. “But I’ll think about suitable trades and get back to you.” 

“That’s mint, mate!” he exclaimed, laughing and patting him on the back. “You do that. In the meantime, you can start with Bellinda or Montilyet. You’re friends, right?”

“Aye…” He eyed Johnston out of the corner of his eye. “Part of why I’d never get them close to you.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean? Told you I’m a gentleman!”

“Aye, that’s what the wolf shouts among the sheep.”

“I’ll have you know that the sheep like this wolf just fine,” Johnston grinned, flexing his bicep.

Cardew rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Have you ever considered that the sheep pretend to like the wolf only so that he’ll leave them alone?” 

There were times - rare ones - when he really liked the carp. 

Johnston chuckled, resting his elbows on the back of the bench. “Reyes sure wasn’t pretending last week,” he shrugged with a smirk.

Cardew quirked a brow. “Want to bet on that?”

“Okay.” Tristan stood up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “I think that’s as good a time as any to take my leave. No interest in hearing the sordid details for a second time. Aran?”

“Yeah, no, I’m good.” He slid off the end of the bench, looped his backpack on, and grabbed his tray. The day before, they’d used the last ten minutes of lunch to make out behind the gym and he was really hoping they were onto that again. Not a bad way to cap the first half of a day, pressed against some boards in the shade. He jogged to catch up, sliding his tray onto the conveyor belt as they passed it. “Get your review done for the quiz?”

“Half of it,” he grunted. “Need to revise those thermodynamics laws. Fuck me if I remember anything from last year.” He leaned down, lowering his voice. “Want to go to the gym? To help me with my revision?” he smirked.

Aran bit his lip; the slight roughness in Tristan’s voice when he whispered had been sending shivers down his spine, even in the summer heat, for a couple months now. He was getting used to it, to the way that slight changes in Tristan’s expression cued him into a shift that was going to make him get dizzy and sweaty. “Yeah. Aye. Yes.” He ducked his head, grinning. Two days in a row. Good. That was good. That was very good. “Race you.”

“Oh, come on-” Tristan laughed, running after him. They were both breathless and panting when they reached the cool shade behind the gym, Tristan just a couple paces behind him. “Damn it,” he groaned, letting his bag slide off his shoulders and tossing it on the ground. “How are you so fast? Your legs are tiny.”

“Less weight to carry around,” he panted, rubbing his chest as he caught his breath. He shoved his backpack off his shoulders and leaned back on his heels. “And I’m just faster than you. I think we’ve established this. How’re your creaky knees?”

“My knees,” Tristan stepped closer, straightening his back so that Aran had to look up at him, “are just fine. More than fine. You are a cheater. A cheating cheater.”

“No way, that was entirely fair. You’re just getting too bulky to be fast.” He tilted his chin up, his grin slipping sideways as he walked his fingers up Tristan’s arm. “They’re going to move you from epee to saber fights if you’re not careful.”

Tristan hummed in amusement. “Sabers are cool. Very fancy. My coach made me try one last year- I’ll have you know I was very good.” His knuckles lightly skimmed his waist. “And you’re still a cheater. You had a headstart.”

“I was motivated,” he searched Tristan’s eyes. “You wanna be a sore loser or do you want to study?”

“I am not a sore loser,” he grumbled, then quirked a brow. “Perhaps we should study the definition of a sore loser. Because I am not it.”

“Oh, aye? Right. Let’s look it up, shall we?” He made a box with his fingers and peered at Tristan through it, “Look! Your picture’s in the encyclopedia! Amazing!”

Tristan snorted, pressing his face against Aran’s fingers. “And your picture is right next to the definition for ‘idiot’.”

“Is it?” he asked, spreading his fingers out over Tristan’s face and sinking them back into his hair. “I always did want to be in a book.”

“You are,” Tristan breathed, brushing his lips over his as he walked him back towards the wall. “You have your very own page. Should check it out one day.”

“Nice that you have,” he hummed, grinning, as the feel of Tristan’s lips against him made him warm and tight and twitchy. “That your version of the Trecenta, is it?”

“Mmhmm,” Tristan chuckled, his palm warm against the small of Aran’s back. “You never told me you read that thing.”

“Was my translation project for Tevene last year. A section of it, anyway.” He licked at Tristan’s lower lip. “You didn’t want to hear about it.”

“They made you translate that thing?” 

“We just had to pick something, but there’s not that many- hmm - not that many Tevinter manuscripts the Chantry has approved of.” 

He shivered, his tongue darting out to twine with Aran’s. “What does the writing under each picture even say? How to successfully do the splits or hold a handstand while someone’s…” He raised his brows. “You know.”

He tasted like salmon and chips and chocolate pudding; Aran sighed against him, tightening his grip in his hair. “You want me to take it out of the library again? I can read it to you,” he tasted Tristan’s lip again. “I can. I would.”

“Read it?” Tristan’s fingers flexed on his back, digging through the fabric of his shirt. He let out a soft, shaky breath, licking Aran’s tongue. “As in, read the instructions? That sounds… hm. Interesting.” He grinned against his lips. “Can you do the splits? I can do a handstand.”

“Can I do the splits,” Aran rolled his eyes, laughing as he tried to ignore the way the feel of his grin into their kissing made his body quake. “You know I can. One more thing I do better than you.” 

Tristan groaned and huffed, closing his teeth over Aran’s bottom lip. “And I can pick you up and toss you out a window.”

“Is that what you want to do with me?” he gasped, his fingers tightening on Tristan’s arm. 

“No,” Tristan sighed. “Yes. Maybe. If you keep cheating and making up things you’re better at than me.” He hummed, his palm smoothing up his sides. “What do you want me to do with you?”

“Tris-” he flexed his hand at the back of Tristan’s head, dragging him closer. The wall at his back was damp from the morning’s rain and Tristan was all hard planes, warm. “Tris, I-” His hands were so strong, just the press of them through the sweater vest and he was- “This. This is good.”

“It is.” Tristan’s lips left his as he moved down to nip at his chin. “It’s good. Very-” He shivered again, following the line of his jaw to nuzzle the side of his neck. “Very good. Mmm.” His fingers were lightly tracing his spine through his vest. “Are you coming to mine after school?”

“Uh huh, aye,” Aran arched at the touch helplessly, his heartbeat running wild in his ears. “Aye, if you want.”

"I do." Tristan's nose felt cool against the sensitive skin under his ear, his lips warm and wet when they brushed his neck. "You can help me with that quiz. And Nelly can make those vegetable chips she made last time. Or we could get takeaway." The vibration of his hum rippled through Aran's chest, pressed as it was against Tristan's. "And then we could watch a film. In my room."

“Veg chips,” he repeated, sighing at the feel of Tristan’s lips on his neck. “The parsnip ones?” He’d nearly gnawed Tristan’s tongue off the last time they’d had those, but Tristan hadn’t seemed to mind. He didn’t seem to mind much these days, which was bloody brilliant and terrifying at the same time, because there were  _ things _ Aran wanted. Things he craved like salt and water. He moaned, tipping his head back to give Tristan’s better access to his neck. “Loud film?” he asked, breathless, “War movie?”

"Sure," Tristan breathed, nipping at his skin. "Whatever you want." He moved up slowly, kissing Aran's chin before brushing his tongue over his lips again. "There's one-" he whispered, breathless, "-about the Battle of Araffelin Bay. Heard it's good." 

“If it’s good, maybe we should watch something else,” he wound Tristan’s hair around his hands. “Don’t want to be distracted by a good movie.”

He gripped Aran's waist, pulling him closer, his lips hot against him, his teeth- and then he pulled back, panting, eyes dark and heavy-lidded when he looked at him. "Right. Yeah."

Aran sagged against the wall, catching his breath under that gaze. The way Tristan looked at him sometimes was enough to make him hard and uncomfortably tight, like his skin was getting smaller as his insides expanded- Too much breath in his lungs, but he couldn’t breathe. Too much blood swelling his brain, but he couldn’t think. “Study, then film. Check.” He swallowed, biting his lip, “You still want to go to the gym after school or just back to yours?” 

"Mine," Tristan blurted out, then cleared his throat. "Yes. Mine. Right? We swam for hours yesterday. I don't think I need to go to the gym today. Besides, there's that test tomorrow, and… yeah." He ran his tongue over his lip, still watching him. "We haven't made a pillowfort in a while."

He laughed, “Aye. True. Can’t have that. The pillowfort spirits might smite us if we don’t keep them happy.” He looked down, biting his knuckle lightly, “Of course, a good pillowfort takes awhile. I could see if I could stay over…”

Tristan's eyes widened just a little, his fingers flexing around Aran's waist. "Are you sure?" he whispered, drawing closer. "Think they'll let you?"

“Aye, why shouldn’t they? I’m on the bloody Dean’s list. So long as it’s okay with your ma,” he lifted his brows. “I’m a good tutor. You can remind her.”

"She's fine," Tristan shrugged. "Might not even notice you're there if she comes back late from the office." He leaned in, brushing his nose over Aran's, his breath warm on his lips. "You're a very good tutor. Especially when you start talking about Antivan history in the middle of whatever we're studying. I almost fell asleep once. Don't think you'd have noticed if I did."

“ _ How _ ?” he asked, laughing as he began to breathe again. Steady. “How do you not see how fascinating it is?! Landlocked on three sides by hostiles at war but they keep their noses out of it? Nine wars! Not a soldier pledged or lost in one of them! How?!”

Tristan rolled his eyes then surged forth, pressing his lips on Aran's. "No. No more Antivan history. No." He kissed him deeply, his tongue brushing the length of his own as he pushed him back against the wall. "If I hear about those nine bloody wars again, I'll lose my bloody mind," he grumbled, nipping at his bottom lip. 

“So can I stay over?” He grinned against Tristan’s lips. There were some things that had begun to feel weird about not telling anyone about them. The summer had been fine. It hadn’t crossed his mind to say anything even before Tristan had asked him not to. But now they were back at school, watching people around them pairing off and holding hands and kissing in the halls… Not that he wanted to kiss in the halls, he reminded himself. That was stupid. All the whistling when you were trying to concentrate on the taste and feel of someone’s lips had to be distracting as fuck. And if  _ people _ knew, he’d realized, Winnie would know, and Patrick- Void if he wanted to deal with Patrick finding one more thing to pick on him over. Plus- if his da knew, he might actually stop him from going to Tristan’s. He’d started getting weirder and weirder about the dumbest things since Aran’s mother had left. That was fine. Everyone, Aran had decided magnanimously, was entitled to be stupid. But not when it limited his time, his life. Not seeing Tristan, not going to his after school, not staying over and spending hours in his room throwing chips at his head- These were unacceptable losses. “If I don’t talk about the nine wars? Aye?”

Tristan hummed in amusement. "Then you're provisionally invited to stay over. Unless you start talking about it in your sleep. Think I've heard you doing that once or twice."

“If I talked in my sleep, it wouldn’t be about that,” he muttered before he thought. Fuck. “Anyway, Patrick would have said. No way he’d let something like that go.” He wrapped his arms around Tristan and squeezed. “Brilliant! It’ll be brilliant! I’ll call next break and make sure I can. Sure you don’t need to check with Addington, at least? Let Nelly know I’m going to dig through her kitchen?”

“Sure,” Tristan chuckled, pulling him flush against him. “It’ll be grand.”


	9. butterflies pinned to the wall (2/2)*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Tristan invited Aran over to his place to spend the night. 
> 
> Very (and I mean _very_ ) mild NSFW ahead.

## [Tristan]

Tristan bit on a sweet potato chip, sighing as it crunched and melted on his tongue. “Mm, so good,” he breathed, lying down on the floor. The pillow fort they’d made was bigger than usual; they had managed to sneak the cushions from the sofa in the upstairs lounge without Addington noticing. How that miracle had happened bewildered him, but he was thankful for that as he looked up at the blanket ceiling of their fort. Cosy and warm, his and Aran’s very own. Just for them. The two of them.

He let his gaze roam over his friend, sitting cross legged beside him. Tristan’s laptop was in his lap, and Aran’s brows were drawn in a concentrated frown as his eyes scanned the screen. “What was the name of that movie again?” He’d gotten distracted, circling down a rabbit hole of memes and video clips he’d wanted to show Tristan for nearly half an hour, but now he was all business.

“Saving Warden Ryan. Johnston saw it a month ago, said it was good but wasn’t thrilled.” 

“So no topless hens in it, eh? What a pity.” 

"No, no topless hens," Tristan snorted. “Should be just the thing we need.” He held out a parsnip chip before Aran's lips, and he bit down on it without glancing at him. “Trade you some more parsnips for the sweet potatoes?”

“Always,” Aran mumbled, chewing. “Sure your mom won’t mind us using her credit card?”

“Yeah. She’s given me that one to use for stuff like that. She gets a text every time I use it anyway.” 

“Okay. Just checking. Right! The movie’s downloading. Ten minutes left.” He set the laptop to the side, sliding closer to him. “Wanna make out while we wait?” he grinned.

“What do you think?” Tristan chuckled as he reached up to draw him down to him. “Come over here and give us a winch, gorgeous,” he said in a heavy Starkhaven accent.

“That’s bloody terrible,” Aran laughed, letting himself be guided down. He hummed when their lips met, fingers threading through Tristan’s hair. 

“Too bad. There’s more where that came from.” His palm smoothed up Aran’s sides, feeling the muscles of his stomach through his shirt. Tristan tilted his head to the side, sighing as his tongue brushed Aran’s lip. “And more of this.”

“Aye,” Aran breathed, his tongue gliding gently over his. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

Tristan closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Aran’s breath, their closeness, the languid rhythm of their kisses seep deep into his bones. There were things he wanted to do with him, to him, _things_ he’d been thinking about and hadn’t been able to get out of his head. More and more with every passing day, which was exhilarating and bloody uncomfortable in a number of different ways- but he wanted this. He wanted it so much it was hard to focus on anything else some days. He liked that they spent so much time together. Even more than they used to before, and Maker knows they’d always been inseparable. His mates could whinge about it any damn way they pleased; Tristan wasn’t about to change this. Not this. 

“You taste good.” Tristan shivered as he traced his lips with his tongue. He picked up a sweet potato chip from the bowl and held it between his teeth. “Now you’ll taste even better,” he mumbled, grinning.

Aran scrunched his nose. “No way. Sweet potatoes taste shite.”

“No, they don’t. Give it a try.” He smirked around the chip. “You’ve said things taste better after you’ve kissed me.”

“Fine,” Aran groaned, leaning down to bite down on the rest of the chip. He narrowed his eyes at him as he chewed. 

“That’s the spirit. Now, give me a kiss. Let me taste.” He pulled him down again, prying his lips open with his tongue, sighing when that sweetness hit his taste buds. “Perfect. Bloody perfect.”

“Aye, sure, for you-“ he muttered, rolling his eyes, but there was a warmth gathering in his cheeks. “Everything’s better with a Tristan chaser, right? Except maybe that accent. Is that really what you think I sound like?” He cocked a brow, “Like a garbled fishmonger?”

Tristan quirked a brow right back at him. "Is that what a garbled fishmonger sounds like in Starkhaven? If so, you're doing quite well." He grinned, cupping the back of Aran's neck as he licked his lips again."And you _do_ like your Tristan chaser, and don't you deny it."

“Who’s denying it?” Aran settled over him, holding himself aloft on his elbows. “The birds and I, we all like a nice draught of Tristan for tea time. Flocking together with our feathers.”

“Birds? What birds?"

“The ones you pass your time with.” He was smiling in that weird way he sometimes did, like there was something ticking behind his eyes. “Though how your lads think you’re not working out is beyond me.”

"You're the only one I pass my time with.” Tristan frowned as he studied the odd curl of Aran’s lip. He knew him too well to miss the fact that there was something clearly bothering him. “Wait- is this about what Cardew said about Statton? He's an idiot. I think he's made that quite plain."

He rolled his eyes. “No. I don’t- I know you’re not- When would you find the bloody time? No. I’m just saying… I ken not saying anything about us, aye. But why do they think you’re chasing birds? Or in the vicinity of doing so? They’re your friends. I mean, they’re morons. But they’re your friends.”

"Yeah, they're my friends who are constantly chasing birds and can't fathom anybody else doing otherwise."

“Right, aye, so you’ve mentioned your lack of aviary interest and they’ve ignored it?”

"Oh." Tristan bit the inside of his lip. "I- uh… haven't exactly… told them. About- about my lack of interest. In birds."

“Obviously.”

"Should I have? Have you told anybody?"

“Josie, Tilly, Miranda, Winnie, Helena, Brilla, Portia, Candice…” He tucked his head to the side. “Aye. A few.”

"Well. I've told _you_ ,” Tristan replied irritably. “And Tilly knows already. I don't see why anybody else should know. And I don't see what's wrong with that."

“Nothing wrong with it.” Aran sighed, resting his head against Tristan’s. “Nothing wrong with it, mate,” he repeated. “I was curious, that’s all.”

Tristan let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, his pulse returning to a steady rhythm. His temper seemed to flare and crackle at the slightest provocation sometimes, but he didn't like it. Not when it was directed at Aran. Less so now than before. "Okay," he breathed, his hands running up Aran's arm. “Do you… Do you want me to tell my friends?"

“No!” he laughed, bit his lip, sobered. “Well. I don’t want you to tell and I don’t want you not to tell; it’s nothing to do with me.” He sighed, lifting his head. “Look, right? I know you don’t want the hassle. And I know you don’t want to tell Tilly about this- us- for-“ he shrugged. “And there’s a domino effect, aye, because there’s not a secret Jackal’s ever met he’s been able to keep to himself. It’s not about _this_ . It’s- If you want to keep it to yourself because that’s what you prefer, that’s one thing. So long as _you_ don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. There’s not, aye. Does that…” he frowned. “Does that make sense?”

Tristan nodded, "It does. I don't think there's anything wrong. With me, or us. I just think… I don't know. It might complicate things if I start telling everyone about it." He scrunched his nose. "That sounded wrong. What I mean is- what you and I do is our business, right? I don't see why other people need to know what we do."

“Not suggesting a play by play, mate. I know you don’t want people to know about us. This is- Just-“ he shook his head, puffing his cheeks out. “Nevermind.” 

"I don't understand. Do you want me to tell people or not?" Tristan studied him curiously. "Just tell me what's bothering you."

“I don’t want- Ugh. I want you to be comfortable. And I don’t know how to- They think you’re _straight_. That’s okay with you? And- like today, with you- What happens if they try to talk to me about- I don’t want to pretend to be straight.”

“What could they talk to you about that you would have to pretend? I'm not asking you to pretend, I never have, don't think I ever will. I've no reason to. I've got nothing to hide." His pulse was getting steadily faster again with his irritation. He pushed himself up on his elbows and glared at him. "I _am_ comfortable. What my friends think about me is none of my concern. Or yours. If you want them to know you don't like girls, you're free to tell them. I'll tell them whenever and if I ever think that's necessary. Is that okay with you? Or do you have a problem with that, too?"

“I don’t have a problem with any- Maker, you’re cross.” He folded his arms across Tristan’s chest and leaned on him, pressing him back to the floor. “I can’t ask questions? I wonder things.”

"You don't wonder things, you judge things," Tristan said, pursing his lips. "You're always judging things." 

“Am I?” Aran crossed his eyes. “Really?”

"Yes, Aran, really. You have an opinion about everything, and when you don't understand something or you don't approve you just get all judge-y and ask a million questions until you get the answer you want." Tristan rolled his eyes. "You've always done that. You say you want to know things, but you're just giving people the third degree." He lifted his eyebrows. "You should join the Seekers; I hear they ask a lot of questions, too."

Aran wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think I do that. Do I?” He bit his upper lip, “You're sure?”

Tristan smiled despite himself. He leaned close, kissing the tip of his scrunched button nose. "Yes. I'm positive. You do it all the time."

“Well, that royally sucks. Why didn’t you say something? Letting me run around like a feckin’ tadger? What kind of mate are you?”

"I'm your best bloody mate," Tristan grinned, wrapping his arms around him and rolling him onto his back. "And I like it when you ask questions. Most times. Others, I just want to stuff you full of parsnip chips so you'll stop. Or," he smiled, leaning down, "do this." He flicked his tongue over Aran's bottom lip, dragged it down to taste him. "I think it's working."

“Sure, and you just want to keep me all to yourself, so you let me be an arsehole so no one wants me around, aye?” 

"Oh, no, you've seen right through my evil plans, what am I to do now?" He chuckled, nipping at his lip. "Now you're all mine. So I win either way."

“You like to win,” Aran tilted his head back. “So I let you.” 

Tristan rolled his eyes, but let Aran draw him near. “Yeah. Keep telling yourself that. Might help you feel better about the times you _actually_ win. Because _I l_ et _you_.” He grumbled under his breath. “You really are annoying. Full of opinions. Wrong opinions. Very wrong. Couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Opinions can’t be wrong.”

“Yes, they can. When they’re _wrong_.”

Aran laughed, nibbling at his lip, “Do the thing where you kiss my neck.”

“Oh, now he wants me to kiss his neck. Full of opinions _and_ demands.”

“I’m of the _opinion_ that you should kiss my neck because it’s good.” He lifted his brows. “You want to do it or not?”

Tristan huffed and rolled his eyes again, then closed his teeth over his chin. “I’ll kiss whatever I want. And bite whatever I want.” He quirked a brow. “If that includes your neck, it’s only because I like doing it.” He swiped his tongue over Aran’s chin, narrowing his eyes. “Objections?”

“Are objections like opinions?” Aran asked, lifting his brows, a gleam in his warm blue eyes. “Don’t want to push my luck.”

Tristan snorted, letting go of his chin to kiss his way down his jaw. “You, not wanting to push your luck?” 

“Well, not when I’m getting kissed and bitten and fed parsnips. No.”

“Look at you. And they say wisdom comes with age.” He nuzzled his ear, biting down on his earlobe. “Are you good, or do you still want the neck?”

Aran twitched, exhaling a nasal whine, “Good. S’good.” His heel pressed into the floor, his hands tightening on Tristan’s shoulders. 

Tristan exhaled softly, running his tongue over the curved shell of his ear. He’d learned soon after they’d started making out that there were spots that made Aran tense; his eyes would roll back, his hands would twitch wherever they happened to be. His ear seemed to be one of them. Tristan didn’t know if it was kissing or licking or biting it that did the trick. Perhaps a combination of the three. But Aran’s shaky exhales, the way he gripped him, the flush on his cheeks- it all sparked that same blaze in Tristan’s core, the one that made everything tight and uncomfortable- and so bloody good at the same time. He hummed, kissing the soft skin under his ear, moving down to the side of his neck. “Still good?” he whispered, his palm brushing lightly over his chest.

“Aye,” he breathed shallowly, fingers tangling in Tristan’s hair. He was always touching his hair, wringing it around his fingers, plaiting it, combing it- “Looking for my hen knockers, bird-catcher?”

Tristan chuckled softly, his tongue gliding over the pulse point in his neck. “I like your knockers. They’re very- mm- tight. And just the right size.” He followed the tendons of his throat, mouthed the line of his collarbone. The pressure of Aran’s body against his own sent shivers up his spine, his fingers running up his scalp, smoothing down his neck, light, careful, exploratory, but sometimes his fist closed in his hair, and he pulled, and- “I like it when you do that,” he gasped, leaning into his touch.

“This?” Aran asked, thready, tugging a little.

“I like- I like your hands. I-” The sound that came out of him sounded dangerously like a moan- Tristan bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut to stop himself from rocking against him. It was so tempting, with that uncomfortable tightness in his sweatpants, to just let go. He took in a sharp breath, rubbing his nose against Aran’s neck. “Yeah. That. But- “ He was panting, he realised. He cleared his throat, his voice as level as he could make it. “I think I like it a little too much."

“Oh.” He could feel Aran’s breath quaking against his ear. “Yeah. That’s- Sometimes I- yeah. Do-“ His tongue flicked out to the shell of Tristan’s ear. “Should I stop?”

“Ah- n- no-“ That deep, throaty sound rumbled through him again, every hair on his body standing on end- Maker, the feel of his tongue, his fingers, his breath- “Oh-“ His hips bucked before he could stop them, and, oh, it felt so good, the way Aran’s body pressed against his own, so good- He froze, blinking. “S-sorry about that."

Still. Still under him, except for the trembles that skimmed under his skin. Quiet except for the shuddering breaths. “Do-“ His Adam’s apple bobbed near Tristan’s lips. “It’s- it’s okay. You can. If you want.”

Tristan lifted his head to look at him. Aran returned his gaze, blinking. A ruddy flush had crept up his cheeks, and his hair was a little dishevelled from where Tristan had threaded his fingers through it before, and his lips were bright pink and glistening. He was staring at him like he had grown a second head all of sudden. “Are you sure? You-” He glanced away in embarrassment, but it wasn’t long before his eyes were drawn back to him. “It’s not weird, is it?”

“I don’t know if it’s weird. But I-“ Aran bit his lip, “I- We can try? And see? I- I think I’d like to- to see.” His gaze darted away and back. “Is that- is that okay?”

“Okay. Yes, let’s- let’s try.” He carefully leaned down, rubbing his lips over Aran’s as he moved slowly, rocking against him, pressing himself closer to him. And that warm, tight, tingling feeling was there again, and so were those blasted sounds that insisted on getting stuck at his throat every time he moved- “How-“ he croaked, then cleared his throat. “How’s that? Is it too much?"

Aran’s fingers tightened in his hair again and at his shoulder. “Nn-no. No, it’s-“ He dabbed his tongue out to his lips, brushing Tristan’s in the process. And his thigh. Shifted. Up. “Oh,” he breathed. “So that’s- Uh… that’s you?”

“Yes- ah-“ Tristan’s voice sounded rough and strained to his ears. Him- what- what did Aran mean- _oh_. “Oh.” He blinked, easing his hold on Aran’s arm. “It’s… I think… yes.” He swallowed thickly. “Uh… sorry?"

Aran’s brow creased and his thigh shifted again experimentally, sending sharp spikes of heat through Tristan’s veins. “No, it’s- you- It’s you,” he murmured, wondering, nibbling at Tristan’s lips as he rotated his leg out, pressing more firmly against him. “It’s just, you’re really-“ He shivered. “You… uh…” he swallowed, his gaze roaming from Tristan to everywhere else and back. “You can do it more?” he croaked. “I think- I think I’d like you to.”

Tristan’s blood rushed up to his cheeks, flooding his brain. The pressure of Aran’s body against his was making it impossible to breathe, his every movement sending jolts of electricity up his spine. He lifted his head slowly, cupping Aran’s neck as he kissed him. Aran sighed against his lips, and Tristan pressed closer, his tongue delving deep into his mouth as his hips bucked forward, just a little, to see how it would feel. And it felt… incredible. The firm point of contact, that pressure between his legs, the warmth that spread through his limbs- It wasn’t enough, not near enough. He moaned when Aran’s hips rolled against his own, as if by instinct, brushing against the side of his thigh. That quick jolt of contact - and the low, hitching exhale from Aran’s throat that had accompanied it- 

How would he manage to lie next to Aran tonight without pouncing on him in his sleep?

The passing thought made him shudder. He pushed forward before he could stop himself, grinding helplessly against him, his body seeking more friction. More of this blessed, unbearable, tortuous contact. Aran’s sigh, when it washed over him, made his head swim. He slid his mouth off Aran’s lips to trace the line of his jaw, tilting his chin up to lick and kiss the skin of his neck. Soft skin, supple, sweet and just a touch salty with his sweat.

Tristan took a deep breath, letting his scent fill his lungs. He knew how Aran smelled, yet it was different now. Trapped in the tent they’d built around themselves. Warmer, stronger, muskier, making his mouth water. “You smell good,” he whispered, nipping at his skin, sucking gently. “I like the way you smell.” 

“Wh-what?” he laughed nervously, “Don’t _sniff_ me- you’re not supposed to say things like that.” He quirked his brows, “Are you?” He stared at Tristan, blinking, breathless, “Are you?” 

“Why not?” Tristan blinked back at him, frowning slightly. “If it’s true, why shouldn’t I say it?”

Aran’s fingers roamed up the side of his neck hesitantly, tracing the shell of his ear. “I don’t know, I just thought- I don’t know- I didn’t know we were- that people- talked about things- like that… I guess?” He bit his lip, “You smell good, too.” His cheeks darkened. His fingertips skittered down the side of Tristan’s jaw. “You-“ he swallowed. “You smell really good. Can I say that?”

Tristan closed his eyes, leaning into his touch. "Yes," he breathed.

“You do- Oh, you’re- and you feel good. Can I say that? Is that okay?”

"Yes, I-" Tristan leaned forward, brushing his nose over his, nuzzling his cheek. "You feel good, too. Really good."

“Do you think it’s weird?” he asked, skimming his fingertips over Tristan’s brows, his cheek, his chin; he traced the corners of his lips and his nose, padded his eyelids. “I like touching you. I’m never sure how much is too much.” 

"It's okay," Tristan said, nodding. He bit his lip, feeling his skin prickle under Aran's fingers. "I like it when you touch me. Even if it's by accident, I- I like it. It's never too much."

“Okay.” Those fingers skimmed back into his hair, light strokes. “I like how heavy you are,” he whispered. Tristan felt his toes flex against his calf. “Not- you know, not that you’re heavy, but you’re tall and you have all this…” his fingers danced down the back of Tristan’s neck to prod his shoulders. “It’s really not too much?” he asked, his lips brushing Tristan’s as he spoke. “The thing where you press against me and I can feel you- that’s really nice. Do you think- Would it be okay- Can I do that, too?” 

Tristan bit back the whimper that threatened to leave his lips. If Aran did that, and _he_ did that- He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. He would be lying even more if he said he hadn’t thought about other things too, but this… This was a start. And he wanted to be close to him. More than anything. "Sure," he whispered. "Yes. Anything you like."

Aran hummed somewhere deep in his chest, the sound vibrating Tristan’s skin where they pressed together. Carefully, gingerly, he tilted his hips. That jolt again of contact through the stiff cotton uniform trousers- One solid line of heat, firm against the side of Tristan’s hip. Aran caught his breath audibly, trembling, his eyes falling closed on a sigh. “Okay,” he swallowed. “Okay. You- You’re okay?”

"I'm okay," Tristan breathed, his voice strangled. "It's- it's okay. It's- is that you?" He glanced down between them, where their thighs met, and - oh. He could definitely see it. See it and feel it. Feel it pressing against him. The only thing separating them a few measly layers of fabric. Tristan's pulse was buzzing in his ears when he looked back up at him. "Want to- want to do it again?"

“Moving?” Aran asked, catching his tongue between his teeth on a sharp exhale. “...aye. Aye. Okay.” He swallowed, his hands flexing at Tristan’s shoulders. “Aye. Right. Yes.” That line of pressure shifted against his hip and Aran shivered, tightening his grip on him, with another quiet, rusty whine. “It’s- It’s not weird? It feels- Fuck.” His eyes were still squeezed shut, his brow tight with concentration. “It’s- you’ll tell me if it’s not okay?”

Tristan nuzzled Aran's nose, shivering as he brushed his tongue over his lips. "It feels- It's so- so-" His palm trailed down Aran's side, feeling the muscles under his shirt. He was so warm against him, his body so close- Tristan's fingers gripped his hip, pulling him closer still as he shifted his body again, one of his knees sliding between Aran's legs. "You feel so good. How do you feel so good-" He was panting again, moaning softly against Aran's lips as his hips bucked and that line of pressure brushed over Aran's thigh, and- oh, he couldn't think of anything better than this. "Aran," he whispered, tasting his lips, breathing him in, "Aran-"

“Aye?” He was panting, hot and belabored breaths caught between their lips, as he slowly answered Tristan’s movements with some of his own. Restrained. His fingers digging into Tristan’s back. “You’re- aye-“ He rocked against him, tentative, pressing his thigh up again. Tristan could feel the tension in his muscles through his sweats as he trembled beneath him. “It’s-“ He bit Tristan’s lip harder than usual, a strange tight sound escaping into their kiss.

"Ah- yes-" Tristan groaned with the feel of Aran's teeth on his lip, with the pain that shot through it- even _that_ felt good. He answered in kind, biting down hard on Aran's bottom lip, spreading his legs with his knee as he lay on top of him. "I like it when you bite me," he heard himself say, but surely that didn't make any sense because biting someone hard shouldn't feel good- should it? But it did. And he wanted more, more- "Do it again," he whispered, reaching down to smooth his palm down Aran's leg, to feel the tight muscles under the fabric of his trousers. "Bite me again."

Another keening sigh. Another staggered, staggering, stutter of thrusts. “Wh-where?” he whispered, broken, shattered glass. “Ear? I like the ear.” His face was bright red.

"Yes- yes-" Tristan's voice was low and raspy, hoarse like he'd been running for miles. He kissed him again, deeply, as he kept rocking against him, with him- "Anywhere- anywhere you like. Anywhere at all."

Aran licked his lip where he’d bitten, kissing blindly to the side of his mouth, his jaw- His teeth raked hesitantly over the curve of Tristan’s jaw. His hips slammed into Tristan’s thigh, hard. Retreated. “Say- say when?” he swallowed. Then his lips were on Tristan’s ear, drawing his earlobe into his mouth, and his teeth began to tighten on his flesh. 

Tristan let out a moan at the back of his throat, his toes curling. How could his teeth make every nerve feel like it was on fire all of a sudden? Warmth was steadily building in his body, sweat gathering at the base of his spine as his hips bucked forward before he could stop himself. His blood was warm, buzzing; it wouldn’t be too long before he reached the point of no return, and he knew it. He bit his lip down hard, clenching his jaw. He took a deep breath through his nose, holding perfectly still. "Aran," he croaked, "I think- I think we must stop." 

Pitiful. The noise that released soft into his ear before Aran’s head fell back to the floor. “Stop?” he echoed; flushed, his eyes shut so tightly that his brow was creased, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Stop. Stopping.” His hands flexed, softened their bruising grip on his back. “Sorry. Sorry. I _hurt_ you. I’m sorry. Tris- I don’t know how much- I liked it harder; I didn’t- I’m sorry-”

"No- it's not that- it's not your fault-" Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, breathed slowly in an attempt to get his heartbeat under control. It wasn't working. Damn it. "It's just-" he huffed. "I think that… if we keep going, I'll… well. Uh-" He glanced away, afraid to meet his eyes. His face was hot, his body tense and wired, and Aran's breath on him, his hands on him, the heat of his body- they weren't helping. "... you know?"

“That’s… not the point?” he asked quietly.

"What point? What-" Tristan stared at him, his heart drumming in his chest. "The point of me… of me- oh, no. No, no. No, thanks.” He huffed a nervous laugh, looking away. He felt shame to have brought it up, to even mention it. It wasn’t something they’d talked about before, and he’d prefer it if they kept it that way. It wasn’t _proper_ , surely; he suddenly felt as if Addington was standing right there, watching them. He shook his head to brush the image away. “Uh- that's not- no. Is- is it?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Is that what you want?"

“I- I mean, it-” He blew his cheeks out, furiously red like a mortified, sun-dried tomato beneath him. “That _is_ the general goal, right? From what- what I’ve- I mean, _I_ don’t want to- But if _you_ want- I don’t- It’s- it’s alright, if-” His voice was getting smaller and smaller by the second. He bit his lip, glancing down and away. “I- Uh… I mean, whatever you need or- I mean, we’re mates, it’s okay. Right? Or- is it weird? Is it? Do you- I didn’t hurt you, though. That’s good. Fuck, there’s a spider on the- no. It’s just a fly. False alarm.”

Tristan watched him carefully, narrowing his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I’m feckin’ grand. Why shouldn’t I be?” He was worrying his lip, bright white piercing a ripe, flushed slice of plum. “I like kissing you,” he whispered. “I want to. If that’s- no. I- I’m sorry I messed up. I get- sometimes my head goes funny and it’s hard to-“ He flushed. 

“I like kissing you, too,” Tristan said quietly. “I like it very much.” He took in a sharp breath, pushing himself up on his elbows. His pulse was a steady, rapid thrum in his ears, his cheeks too hot. “I think... I want to do more than that. But at the same time, I don’t. Because… because I like it just a little too much, you see? And- and I don’t want to do anything you don’t want, and I don’t want to ruin it and- is it weird? That I want that? That-” he frowned, lowering his voice, “-that I _feel_ that? My head goes funny, too. It’s hard to think. I’m not sure what it is. I think it’s because…” Tristan let out a tremulous exhale, his throat suddenly feeling thick and tight. “I want more. I want… you.” He bit his lip. “It’s weird. Isn’t it? I think it is.”

“It’s not weird.” Aran was conducting a thorough inspection of their fort, his gaze roaming everywhere but Tristan’s face. “I mean, evolution being what it is and stages of development and- technically, that’s- I- I mean, that’s the progression of the- Theoretically, there’s an expected progression. I guess. With the- uh… So you shouldn’t- you know - feel weird about that or- Right? Because that’s… normal. Aye? Or- There’s- What- More, like this? This is- good, or- Or more- What did you want, exactly?”

Tristan opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again. What did he want? Exactly? He wanted him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to touch him and grip him, pull him and shove him, and- rocking against him felt good, too. Incredibly so. And Aran's hands on him... He wanted them. _On_ him. Which was a mad thought, and he shouldn't have thought it because Aran was his friend - well, his boyfriend, technically- and he wouldn't want that. He always seemed eager to touch him and kiss him too, but there were times when he froze and asked him to stop, like he had at the Cove. What would he do, if Tristan asked for more than he was willing to give, if he pushed him too much, if… The thought chilled him. He brushed his tongue over his lips, considering his next words. 

"I... don't know," he said slowly. "I like it when you touch me. When I touch you. But I don't know what you want. And if what I want is simply… too much. For you." He cocked his head to the side. "You know?"

“Aye.” His gaze flitted back to him for an instant, “Aye.” Then back to the cloth ceiling and the fabric walls. “I’ll let you know, right?” He squinted, “If it's too much. I don’t- I don’t want to- You won’t ruin it, right. I’ll just- you know- I can keep up. If there's- I can- Right, see, you should do what you like, with me, and I’ll wallop you if you’re off, aye?” He grinned, fleeting, and lifted his brows. “That- uh- You like when I touch you, eh?”

Tristan chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss that grin. "I do. It's really nice. I like your hands." He caught his bottom lip between his own, running his tongue over it, tasting him. His breath was softer now, steadier, brushing his cheek like feathers. "Do you like it when I touch you?" he whispered, his palm gliding slowly down his chest.

“Yeah,” Aran shivered, shifting beneath him. “That’s- aye. Your-“ His fingers trailed up Tristan’s spine, like weighted fireflies; dancing into his hair again, cradling his neck. “I like when you touch me,” he murmured, his tongue darting. Slick to slick, warm breath mingling again. “I like it a lot. I like-“ His other hand roamed lower on his back. “Can I- Do you mind if I-“ he tugged and Tristan felt his shirt slip from his waistband. “I like touching you. If you want me to.”

"I do," Tristan sighed, his hair standing on end when Aran’s fingers slipped under the fabric of his shirt. "I want you to. Anywhere you want." His own fingers strayed lower, lifting the edge of Aran's shirt, mirroring his movements. Aran's skin was warm and tight over his hip bones when Tristan brushed his knuckles over it. "Is that okay?"

“Aye.” His touches were so tentative, light, as he skimmed under the edge of his shirt and up. “Aye-“ His palms flattened against Tristan’s skin, dragging upwards, up his back, his sides- dry and rough and pressing, no- pulling him closer- Aran licked at his tongue, parsnips and sweet potatoes and oil and him- “You can- Can we- Should I- Do you want me to try biting you again?” he asked roughly. 

Tristan nodded quickly, not breaking the kiss. His palm was smoothing up, under Aran's shirt, his thumb brushing over the dip under his ribcage, his taut, tense muscles, moving with his breaths. "Yes-" He caught Aran's tongue between his lips, sucking gently, humming at the back of his throat as his fingers grazed a raised nipple. "Ah, yes-" Aran's hands were soft and rough on him, gentle and pulling, digging, skimming up his sides, holding them both closer, pressing them together- "Anything you want. Anything. Anything at all- I just- ah-" His hips rolled forward, brushing against Aran's, and then his eyes were rolling back and those sounds were coming out of him again- "I want you. I want you."

Aran laughed, “Just- here- hold on- I have to wear this tomorrow.” He kissed him hard and shoved him off, sitting up to unbutton his shirt. “Stretching my uniform, mate,” he peeled it up and over his head, glancing at him, tongue resting on his lower lip. Pale milk skin, his freckles still dark from the summer sun like a pattern of stars across his shoulders and down his torso. He itched his chest, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His lips twitched, “You’re camping, Tris.”

Tristan glanced down at himself. Yes. That bulge- He rolled his eyes, cheeks flaring. "So are you," he huffed, looking away. His fingers itched to touch him, to reach out and glide down the contours of his chest, map the freckles on his skin, but he kept his hands firmly on his knees. 

“True.”

Tristan’s gaze darted to him, then flitted towards the window again, "Shall I, uh… do you want me to take mine off, too?"

Aran grinned sharp and sudden. “Dunno. Do you want to?” His grin slipped sideways, as he nudged Tristan to his back, bending over him. “Double pillow fort,” he beamed, and then he yanked Tristan’s shirt up and dove beneath it, trapping himself under the cloth against Tristan’s chest. His mouth was hot and quick at Tristan’s stomach. “Bites- Should I get the parsnips back from here?” he laughed, rubbing his face against Tristan’s navel… then his teeth skimmed his skin, light nips across his skin. 

Tristan huffed a surprised laugh, Aran's lips on his skin sending jolts up his spine. His teeth were cool and sharp on his skin, his mouth so close to- close to- Oh, Maker. "It- it tickles," he panted, biting down on his lip when another of those dreadful moans rose up in his throat. A strained whimper was what escaped instead.

Aran’s head lifted sharply, stretching his tee shirt. “Tickles?” His breath warm against him. “We finally found where you’re ticklish?” Aran chuckled darkly, “Finally! After years of searching!” He rubbed his cheek against Tristan’s stomach, nipping and licking and kissing at him until Tristan felt like he was going to lose his mind. “You-“ Was that his nose resting in the hollow of his navel? Quick, hot exhales- The movement of his lips- The pressure of his shoulder so close, so close to where- where he was- he was- “-taste brilliant.”

Tristan swallowed thickly, breathing hard through his nose. "Do I?" He gently, gingerly patted Aran's head through the fabric. "What- what do I taste like?" 

“Crisps,” he uttered through the fabric, muffled against his skin. “Warm. Like those sour cream crisps when they’ve been out in the sun all day, and they’ve gotten baked in the bag,” he sighed, his exhale warming all of Tristan’s chest, his sides, brushing his hip like a breeze, “and they get soft, like they can melt if you just let them sit on your-“ He licked across Tristan’s navel, then paused. “Is this okay?”

"I'm- I'm okay." He was _not_ okay. His hands were bunched into fists, and his jaws were clenched and that tightness is his sweats was- was- _tight_ . Unbearably tight and tense like a string that'd been stretched to near breaking. And Aran was touching him and- and licking him and- kissing him down there, so close to _down there-_

Tristan bit the inside of his lip hard enough to leave a mark. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it in those videos that his friends kept sending him. Johnston especially had an entire collection of them, and his own was ever growing- though he hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Aran- but more than that, it was his imagination that was going rampant, more and more with every passing day. And there was no use denying to himself any longer where his mind drifted off to when he went to bed at night, when deft fingers slid under covers; who in particular he pictured doing those things with. 

Aran’s lips brushed his navel again and Tristan shivered, holding on to the last of his control. No. Thinking of those things, let alone suggesting them, was out of the question. Aran wouldn’t want that. Would he? He took in a sharp breath as he carefully lifted the collar of his shirt, looking down at Aran. "That sounds horrible, by the way. If I'd known I taste so bad, I wouldn't have let you kiss me there."

“It’s brilliant,” Aran repeated, grinning up at him. “You’re brilliant. You’re new to being ticklish. I think you need to practice more. I’d an expectation of more writhing and yelping.” 

"Writhing?" Oh, there was plenty of writhing involved. Or there would have been, if Tristan hadn't been clenching his jaw so hard his teeth were about to crack.

He squinted curiously up the line of Tristan’s chest, resting his cheek on his belly. “Is the biting okay? More? Less? Do you- Is it okay?” He bit his lip, “It’s nice in here.” 

"It's okay," Tristan nodded quickly. "I- I like when you bite me." He slowly smoothed his palm down the back of Aran's neck through the fabric of the shirt, fingers following the dip between his shoulder blades. He ran his tongue over his lips, breathing slowly. "I hope you won't try to tickle me just to hear me yelping."

“But I like the sounds you make.” He held Tristan’s gaze as he turned his face to sink his teeth into his stomach. Harder and harder, his canines sharp, but more the pressure- the pressure of his mouth, his hands gripping Tristan’s shoulder and his knee, the glee in his gaze. 

"Ah- nng-" Tristan's head fell back on a muffled moan, his fingers flexing on Aran's back. His hips moved up, brushing against Aran's chest- his bare chest- pressing against the firm line between his legs every time he breathed. “I like- I like when you do that. Your teeth-" He groaned, thrusting up again, then pressed himself to the floor on a sharp exhale. Things would not look very good for him if they kept at this, of that he was certain.

“Tris-” He lifted his head, flushed, pressing into Tristan’s hand like a stretching cat, then bent back to his stomach, shoving his tee shirt up to press kisses and careful bites up his chest. Inch by inch, he climbed Tristan until he was hovering over him on his hands and knees, kissing his lips and his chin. “See? You taste good. Should- Do you want me to touch you? More? Or?”

"I do," Tristan panted, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him close. He moaned into Aran's mouth, nipped at his lips, licked his tongue, kissed his chin. "I want more. I want- more- yes-" It was impossible to breathe, impossible to think, impossible to do anything other than chase this wave of warmth that surged through him, a rushing river that crashed against a dam, begging for release. "I want- you- please-" His teeth closed hard over Aran's bottom lip as he reached down, smoothing his palm down the curve of his thigh, drawing him closer and down- down to him. Down- yes- this- Maker- "Aran," he rasped, hoarse and breathless, "Aran-"

“Ah-” He heard Aran’s sigh, felt his vibration through his lips, and the pressure of his knee dragging up the inside of his leg. “You can- Here- Tris- You can-”

There was heat and contact- and then there was a blossom of pain that snapped through him. "What- fuck- _ow-_ " He hissed, pulling back, blinking through the unexpected jolt. "What- what was _that_ for?"

“Sorry! Sorry- I was trying to let you- fuck.” Aran sat back on his heels, pressing his fist to his mouth. “Sorry- You- Shite, you okay?”

Tristan took in a shaky breath, pushing himself up. He threaded his fingers through his hair, smoothing them back from his brow that was damp with sweat. "I'm- I'm fine. I think." He winced slightly as he sat up, but the pain was already subsiding. "I'm alright. Are you- how are you?"

“I wasn’t just kneed in the bollocks. Do you want to- you know what. You can punch me in the arm.” Aran itched his brow, his lips quirking suspiciously. “I really didn’t mean to.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "I can see you smiling, you know."

“I am not-” He pressed his hand across his mouth. “I feel really bad about it."

"Yeah, I can see that, too," Tristan replied sarcastically.

"I do! Fuck. That- really looked like it hurt.”

"It did. Very much. Like being kneed in the balls." Tristan's lips widened in a wicked grin. "Now you have to make it up to me."

“Aye, yes, absolutely.” He peered over top of his hands, “What? No tag-backs.”

"Why not? A fair trade."

Aran shook his head. “No… You squealed like a stuck pig. No way.”

"Lies. I do not squeal." Tristan leaned forward, crawling slowly over him. "Get down."

“No!” Aran squeezed his eyes shut, letting himself be pushed back. “Okay. Just make it quick. I swear it was an accident. I’m sorry.”

Tristan hovered over him on hands and knees. “Right,” he said, running his tongue over his lips. “Ready?”

Aran nodded sharply, pressing his eyes shut even harder and scrunching his nose.

The sight of Aran underneath him sent a blaze of want rushing through him. He leaned down to brush his lips over Aran’s ear, his palm skimming his sides. “It might hurt a little,” he whispered, flicking his tongue over his earlobe as he slowly, carefully dragged his knee up, brushing the inside of Aran’s thigh. Tense muscles, tight- then that firm, smooth line between his legs, pressing against his knee through the fabric of his trousers. Tristan hummed softly, his fingers sinking in Aran’s waist, gripping him, keeping him in place as he gently stroked that hard line with his knee. “Does that hurt?" 

Aran’s lips opened, but no words formed. His body arched, a quiet keening escaping his throat as he gripped Tristan’s arms. His brows drew tight as he rolled his hips, thrusting towards the contact out of some instinct, some need- the need that Tristan had been feeling, based on the quick, guttural breaths and the way his hands were trembling on his biceps and- He was all movement. Teeth pulling on his bottom lip. The way his muscles flexed against Tristan’s hands as he writhed, as his head fell back and his neck arched along with the line of his spine-

Tristan ran his tongue over his throat, tasting him, feeling his erratic pulse. Aran was writhing, grinding against him, quivering like a plucked string. Tristan would be lying if he said it didn’t thrill him to watch Aran squirm like that, to hear the keening sounds he made. He moaned softly, his palm gliding up Aran’s arched chest, thumb grazing his nipple, teeth sinking into his neck. “Yes,” he said in a muffled whisper against his skin, “yes, yes-"

“Ah-“ The noise was like pain, like a syllable of the Chant. Aran’s fingers tangled into his hair, pressing against his scalp as he rocked onto Tristan’s knee. Sweat at his temples, at the center hollow of his chest. Tremors beneath his skin. His gasps tighter by the moment, pitch rising as he pulled Tristan closer. He was an instrument. Every one of Tristan’s touches, every kiss, every stroke of his hands over him elicited lower tones. Every rake of his teeth or shift of his leg were higher, breathier, arching him more. Then he was a living shiver in Tristan’s hands, beneath him, a whine resonating out of his mouth and nose for an elongated moment. He felt him shake, all of him, every part.

Tristan hummed as he licked the line of his collarbone, tasting his sweat on his tongue. Salt and warmth and fresh soil, the light scent of him growing heavier, muskier, deeper. It was enough to drive him mad. “Maker, you taste brilliant,” he murmured, voice muffled against his skin. He moved lower, flicking his tongue over his nipple, moaning under his breath. “Did I tell you that?”

Aran’s cheeks were bright red, his eyes glassy where he lay, blinking. “Uh huh,” he croaked. “You- yeah-“ 

"Didn't hurt you, did I?" he whispered as he kissed his way up his chest, nipping at his neck and his chin before brushing his lips over his. "Want me to stop?"

He shook his head vaguely. “No,” he whispered, “didn’t hurt. Don’t- You’re-“ He shivered. “That’s… you can. On me. If you- You can.”

Tristan blinked at him. "Do what on you?"

“Hmm?” Aran blinked back.

"What do you want me to do on you?"

“Any-“ he murmured, dazed, nuzzling the side of Tristan’s cheek. “Hi.”

"Hello." Tristan chuckled. He lowered himself on his elbows, settling on him, between his legs- ah, and that glorious pressure was back. Praise the Maker. "That's nice," he sighed as he slithered his fingers into Aran's hair. It was slightly damp at the nape of his neck, the copper curls at his temples darkened by his sweat. Tristan took a deep breath of that musky scent, rubbing his nose against his ear. 

“You’re nice,” Aran mumbled against his ear. His teeth closed over his earlobe and tugged as he sighed, shifting beneath him. “S’better with you than alone. Loads better. Didn’t think it would be.”

"Yeah?" Tristan sighed, leaning into his touch. "What's better?"

He licked at Tristan’s ear and nipped it again. “Like getting rez’d in the middle of a fight.”

"Oh." Tristan frowned in confusion, but Aran's lips on him made it hard to think of anything else. "You- you want to play videogames?"

“I want to do it again.” He tugged at Tristan’s ear. “And then again.” He nuzzled his cheek and bit down harder. “You’re brilliant.”

"So are you," Tristan moaned, his hips rolling forward on their own. "You're so nice- you feel so good- ah-" His fingers curled in Aran's hair, tugging at his strands. "I like- your teeth-"

“Uh huh-“ Aran was pushing his shirt up, sliding his hands across Tristan’s back. “It’s- Ah-“ he rocked up against him, sighing hot breath around Tristan’s ear. “More-“

“Yes- more-“ Tristan shivered as Aran’s hands climbed further up his back, fingers grasping his shoulders- He pulled the edge of his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side. Sighed when he settled back down on him, his bare chest pressing against Aran’s. His skin was warm against his own, damp with sweat, and his teeth on his ear were sharp but gentle, undoing the last of his resolve- if he even had any left. “More,” he grunted, grinding helplessly against him, seeking more friction-more- “Yes-“ 

Every touch, every kiss, made Aran squirm more underneath him and the way he moved- his arms tightening around him, hands splaying on his skin, pulling him closer- rocking against him- The thin fabric of his khakis and Tristan’s sweatpants mattered less and less as they drove against each other, panting and biting- “Good, yes, good, right, good-“ Aran whispered against his ear, teeth tightening.

“Yes- ah- yes-“ Tristan panted, a strangled moan escaping him as he smoothed his palm down Aran’s sides, burying his face in his neck to lick and nip at the smooth skin there. His eyes rolled back as he pushed against him, urgently, chasing something- something- “I want you- fuck- I want-“ A strong shudder cut his sentence short, every muscle in his body tensing as blinding light exploded behind his eyelids. He collapsed on top of him, his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, grunting as he felt wet, sticky warmth blossoming in his boxers. “Fuck,” he breathed, closing his eyes, letting his head fall over Aran’s shoulder. 

“Right?” Aran laughed, tugging again at his ear once more. “Void and Deep, mate.”

“Mmhmm.” Tristan took in a deep breath as another weak shiver curled over him like a wave. Aran’s teeth on his ear, his arms around him felt so good, his body underneath him so soft and warm. He hummed, nuzzling the side of his neck. “More.”

“Uh huh-“ Aran’s breath was warm and unsteady on his ear. “Aye. More. More is good.” Tristan could feel his grin against the side of his face. “Not weird, right?”

“No. Not weird. Good. Very good,” Tristan chuckled softly. “We should have done it sooner.”

“Easier to wash out in the ocean,” he was snickering against his skin. “Salt and sea, I need to change.”

Tristan closed his teeth over Aran’s bottom lip, grinning. “Nope. If I’m sticky and disgusting, then you should be sticky and disgusting, too.”

“These rules you make are really one-sided, you know that? When I’m in the mud or the pond, it’s never reversed, is it?”

Tristan quirked a brow. “The winner makes the rules.”

“Sure, aye, when you’re the winner, you great oaf.”

“I’m _always_ the winner. Always, and this time is no exception.” Tristan bit Aran’s lip harder, growling softly. “Say I’m the winner.”

Aran cackled, “The winner of what?”

“Of everything! Just say it!”

“Fuck no.”

“Fuck yes. I am.” He swiped his tongue over Aran’s bitten lip, flushed and warm and so wonderfully soft. “I’m the best at everything and I make all the rules, now and always. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Aran squinted, his grin going crooked. “No? Nothing at all?”

“Nope. Nothing at all.”

“Well, if I’m a loser. If my gross, sticky boyfriend just called me a loser, then I have no recourse.” He sighed. “So there were nine wars that happened on the Antivan border. The first was between the Freed Men of the Marches and the creepy fuckers from the Imperium. And that was just - an awesome war in a fuckton of ways, but the main thing is that both of them went to Antiva for alliances and somehow the Merchant Princes sold both sides weapons, enough to really crack into their navy, and didn’t get rammed for it from either side. So that was the work of the Merchant Prince Benedicte the Sly-”

“Benedicte the Sly,” Tristan echoed, rolling his eyes. “Who gives a toss about that guy?”

“-And it was actually his grandson Benedicte the Small who talked them out of the War of the Veil between Rivain and the Imperium. That was also a really cool one. Magic is so weird. So Benedicte the Small actually had to negotiate with a Spirit of Bargaining, according to the legends, and he won! Fucking mad- and-“

Tristan groaned, pressing his forehead against Aran’s. “Stop. Stop it. No more. You’ll give me a headache.”

“Oh, sorry, I was skimming. Let me go back to the beginning,” he kissed Tristan warmly. “So- Darthungus the Mighty had a dispute with Prace of Moros about the herding of goats-“ He itched the side of his nose. “Well. That’s not even really the beginning, because really that feud started in the generation before over a crop of thistles. Did you know thistles were used in summonings for a while, and for divination? Anyway, there was Darthungus’ great uncle Pagclain who had these thistles- Oh, I can show you, they’re online. Actually, there’s the eight part docuseries that covers the first four of the wars. We could watch that-“

"Maker, we were just _fine_ a moment ago. Then you had to go ruin it with all the Benedictes and the Darthunguses. No one. Cares. About them. And your sneaky tactics have never worked on me." Tristan fixed him with a glare when Aran opened his mouth again. "I'm going to kiss you until you can't breathe. I'm going to stick my tongue so far down your throat, you won't be able to say a single word." He leaned down, bumping Aran's nose. "We'll see how you'll be talking about Darthungus' great uncle then."

Aran grinned, “Yield and I’ll stop. Your tongue’s not that long.”

"Don't think you've ever seen the full length of my tongue. Pretty sure it reaches your throat."

“Let’s see then,” he tipped Tristan’s chin down and peered into his mouth. “Looks average to me.” He wiggled his fingers past Tristan’s lips, rocking up against him. “Slippery, though.” He brushed his fingers over the tip of Tristan’s tongue. “Ah, that feels good, actually.”

Tristan hummed, closing his lips over Aran's fingers. "It does," he mumbled around his digits, moving with him. He flicked his tongue over his fingertips, tasting the saltiness of his skin. 

Aran whined in the back of his throat, eyes wide as he slid his fingers over the surface of Tristan’s tongue. “I win?”

Tristan nodded, distracted by the ruddy flush that was starting to creep up Aran’s cheeks again. "Okay," he whispered, breathless. He brushed his thumb over Aran's lips, watching as he pushed it slowly past his teeth. "You win."

Aran nipped at his thumb, grinning fiercely, then darted his tongue out to lap his knuckle. “You taste good,” he mumbled, meeting Tristan’s gaze. “And I win.” He slurped Tristan’s thumb, waggling his brows. “I win, I win, I win.”

"Fine, yes, you do." Tristan closed his teeth over his fingers, narrowing his eyes. "But don't push it. Or I might change my mind."

“Hmmm,” he hummed, nuzzling Tristan’s nose as he rolled his tongue around his thumb. His happy little noises sounded suspiciously like ‘win, win, win’ but Tristan elected to ignore them.


	10. wilted wildflowers

## [Tristan]

The wind whipped through Tristan’s hair as his bike rushed down the steep slope. The warmth of summer was waning, but a sweet, mellow breeze still lingered. It smelt of salt and sea. 

The polo coach had let them go an hour earlier than expected- Tristan hadn’t even stopped to change out of his riding clothes before setting off for Aran’s house. He hadn’t seen Aran since the day before and he already missed him. Which was to be expected, he supposed. With every day that passed, he missed him more and more, wanted to see more of him, hear more. Touch more. Ever since that time Aran had stayed at his for the night…

Tristan felt his cheeks warming. They hadn’t talked much, since that day. It was more so because they’d both been busy, he told himself; Tristan’s first polo match of the season was coming up, and Aran had more than enough assignments to occupy him. Yet, the fact that Tristan’s last few texts had gone unanswered, and that the only response he’d received from Aran to the poem he'd sent him the previous night was a meme of a dog rolling on its back did not help very much. Tristan had spent the better part of an hour combing through his books to find that poem, and he’d picked it just for him. Aran could have at least chosen a better meme to send him. At least. 

He frowned, squinting against the bright sunlight when the wooden fence that circled the ranch came into view. The outer gate was ajar, Max’s truck stopped right before it. Aran’s eldest brother was tall and broad of shoulder, the skin of his forehead bronzed from the sun, his golden hair cropped short. He smiled brightly at him when he saw him getting off his bike. 

“Tristan!” he greeted him cheerfully as he loaded a square bale of hay on the back of the truck. “Give me a hand with this, will you?”

Tristan returned his wide smile with a more reserved one of his own before inclining his head politely. He disliked touching the hay. It made his skin itch. Still, he set his bike against the fence and helped him haul the last of the bales, stacking them neatly against each other. He gingerly drew his kerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands when he was done, watching as Max lifted and secured the truck’s tailgate. 

“How’s Almond? Is she treating you well?”

“She’s doing great. Yes, she’s wonderful. A delight, really. She and I placed first in the show jumping trials two months ago, did Aran tell you?”

“That he did. I had no doubts. She’s a fine mare, one of the finest we’ve bred. We wouldn’t give you just anything, eh?” He laughed heartily and patted Tristan on the shoulder. “I’m off now. Your pal’s up at the house. Don’t keep him waiting.”

“Okay. Thanks, Max.” Tristan got on his bike, waving as the truck drove off. He pedalled leisurely down the long gravel drive, then brought the bike to a stop when he reached the flower garden before the house. It was Aran’s mom’s work, and the rose bushes were neatly trimmed and fragrant this time of year. Patrick was lounging on one of the floral padded armchairs on the front porch, his long legs sprawled on the low table. Tristan’s stomach tightened when Patrick lifted his gaze from his phone to look at him. His eyes were the same hue as Aran’s, summer sky blue, but they had none of the warmth, or the kindness. 

“Trevelyan,” he said flatly, his expression wooden and thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Patrick.” Tristan straightened his back, returning his look levelly. “Is Aran home?”

The older boy regarded him in silence for a few moments - moments that Tristan stood there awkwardly, trying his best to look as bored and mildly bothered as he- before standing up with a long suffering sigh and walking to the door. “Wait here,” he commanded, then disappeared inside the house. 

Tristan itched his earlobe as he waited, released and re-gathered his hair, studied the red clapboard and the sloped black roof of the house. It wasn’t a large building, but it was homely. The warm scent of the roast they had for lunch reached him with the passing breeze. Tristan never spent too much time there, and neither did Aran, if he could help it. Still, he liked it when Aran’s mum came out and offered him a biscuit or something else she’d made whenever he came to pick Aran up. She wasn’t much of a baker or a cook, but she was always nice to him. He hadn’t seen her in a while. 

Muffled talk from inside drew his attention. It sounded rough and agitated, but Tristan couldn’t discern who was talking, or what they were saying. A man’s low rumble, then a woman’s voice- was that Aran’s mum? The voices grew louder and sharper, but the steady buzz from the TV rendered it impossible to make out any words. Patrick’s voice knifed cleanly through it as he said something that sounded much like his usual insults, though Tristan couldn’t tell who it was directed at. 

He thought he heard the shuffling of feet coming closer to the front door, then what definitely sounded like pushing and shoving. Tristan’s ears pricked up when he heard Aran’s telltale high pitched infuriated snarl, followed by Patrick’s mocking laugh. His temper flared by instinct; he set his bike down and took a decisive step forward, when the door was flung open and a red-faced Aran stormed out. 

“Aran-”

“Let’s just go,” Aran snapped, grabbing his bike that was leaning against the steps of the porch and promptly taking off.   
Tristan followed him silently as he took off at dead speed. They didn’t exchange a word until they were well away, past the farm and the apple orchard beyond it, until the lake’s still waters were visible, glittering in the distance. It was more of a large pond than a lake, really, and he and Aran often went there when the weather was good. It was usually quiet and peaceful, and that day was no different. Only a paddling of brown backed mallards glided on the water, the iridescent green feathers on their long necks catching the light as they moved.

Aran tossed his bike aside as soon as he dismounted, letting it fall to the soft grass. Tristan set his own down beside it, then came to stand next to him at the pond’s bank. He was tense and wired, a string ready to snap. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his nostrils flaring with every panting breath he let out. 

“Hi.”

Aran dropped to his knees and buried his head in the water, loosing a scream that echoed through the still surface and sent the ducks skittering into flight. He sat up, shoving his wet hair from his face and stared at the ripples as they receded. “Hi,” he panted in answer, scrubbing at the water dripping from his nose, leaving a smudge of mud in its place. “How was practice?”

Tristan shrugged, "Good. I stole the ball from Johnston and he chased me down the field while the others cheered. Coach didn't like that very much." He slid his hands in his pockets and rocked a little back and forth on his heels. "How's the water?"

“Warm. You want to swim?” The fresh mud in his hair made a handful of it stand out to the side. “I could swim.” He rubbed his nose on the back of his arm. “Something wrong? You usually don’t finish until later, right?”

"Coach said he had to pick up his daughter from the dentist's. Dunno. I think he was just sick of Jonhston and me taking the piss so he let us go early." There were fat drops of muddy water running down Aran's forehead and into his eyes, and he rubbed at them, sniffing and wrinkling his nose. Tristan smiled despite himself as he reached for his handkerchief. "Come over here," he said, drawing him close to wipe the mud from his cheeks, the side of his nose. Then he cupped his neck and leaned down to steal a kiss. "Missed you," he murmured against his lips.

“I missed you, too!” Aran wrapped his arms around him tight, “I hope your match is worth it. Endless bloody practices. Can’t you just win and be done with it?” He tugged him towards the tree. “Best two out of three for all the marbles. Kiss me again.”

The pond water had left a slightly bitter aftertaste on Aran's tongue, but Tristan kissed him eagerly as he let himself be drawn to him. "We _will_ win. But then we'll just have to practice more to keep up, and then win more matches, and even more practice..." He closed his teeth over Aran's bottom lip, pressing him back against the tree trunk. "As if it would make a difference to you," he said sulkily. "You hardly ever respond to my texts anyway. If I hadn't come today, you would have forgotten all about me."

“You’ve caught me,” he snorted. “I’m always forgetting you. Thank the Maker I see you all the time or I’d be lost.” His fingers were slick with mud and chilled from pond water when they slipped up beneath Tristan’s jersey. “Remind me, eh?”

"Yes, but-" Tristan shivered as the cool, pesky fingers travelled up his stomach, caressing his sides. He sighed, kissing Aran deeply, forgetting everything he'd been about to say. So what if Aran hadn't responded to a text or two, or if he replied to his poems with dog memes? He still wanted him. He'd still missed him. Every smile, every touch, every smooth glide of his tongue over his own pushed Tristan's thoughts and worries further and further back in his mind. It was good, what they had. No doubt about it. "Wait," he said, drawing back. He laughed at Aran's confused stare as he unslung his backpack. "I brought something." The small bouquet of wildflowers he had gathered on his way to Aran's house was slightly wilted, despite his best attempts to keep the blossoms from getting bruised during his bike ride. Even so, he held it proudly before Aran's face, beaming. "For you."

Aran leaned back against the trunk, blinking down at the flowers. “Okay.” He itched his nose with his knuckle. “...what am I supposed to do with this?”

Tristan's smile melted away. He stared at Aran, the warm fuzzy feeling he'd had only moments before turning sour in his stomach with every second that passed and Aran made no move to take the flowers. "You… you don't like it?"

“I mean-” He squinted, taking the flowers with a skeptical look. “Now what? What’s the game?”

"There is no game." Tristan frowned, "You're supposed to keep them. Or- I don't know, set them aside and take them with you before we leave, or-" 

“Are they medicinal?” he asked, peering down at them with sudden curiosity. “Something you read about?” He plucked at a leaf and nibbled at it. 

"No, they're not- I just passed them by and thought they were pretty, and-" He stopped abruptly when he felt his cheeks growing uncomfortably hot. "You don't have to keep them if you don't want them, of course," he said indignantly. "I simply thought- it doesn't matter what I thought." He crossed his arms before his chest, looking away.

“Sure it does.” Aran stuck his tongue out, spitting the nibbles of leaves out. “Thanks for showing me. They’re pretty. Could have just shown me where you found them.” He tilted the flowers to the side, peering at them. “You didn’t have to kill them.” He wiggled the flowers at Tristan, chuckling, “Too pretty to live!” 

"I didn't kill them- Maker-" Tristan swatted the flowers away, scowling at him. "Just forget about it, alright? It was a stupid idea anyway." He turned around, pacing towards the pond. It had been a stupid, stupid idea. Whatever had he been thinking. It had seemed like a nice thing to do at the time, when he'd stopped to pick up the flowers and arrange the bouquet. A romantic gesture, something- something _boyfriends_ did. Cardew gave Martina flowers all the time, and she always laughed and threw her arms around his neck, but Aran wasn't Martina. And Tristan wasn't Cardew, and what they had wasn't- He took a deep breath, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Just forget it."

“This one tastes pretty good.” A sprig of the white tufted flowers wiggled in front of his face. “Like almonds. You like almonds.”

"I don't like almonds," he mumbled petulantly. He glanced at Aran over his shoulder, "And you don't like these flowers."

“I do. I do like them.” He took a mouthful of the white flowers, crunching them, grinning like a goat. “See. Delicious. Now Tristan chaser.”

Tristan laughed, shaking his head. He hated that Aran could always make him laugh, even when he was mad. "I'm not kissing you with those things in your mouth." He took the flowers from Aran's hand, or whatever was left of them, anyway. "And you're not supposed to eat them, you know."

“I didn’t know that. I asked what I was supposed to do with them.” Bits of greenery and fluffy petals fell from his lips as he spoke. “Kisses. I like the flowers. Have some.”

Tristan scrunched his nose, brushing leaves and petals from Aran's mouth. "You're gross," he said before leaning in with a grin. "That tastes like shite, by the way," he mumbled against his lips, "not at all like almonds."

“You’re getting too many leaves. More flowers.” He wound his arms around Tristan’s neck, leaning against him. “You need more flowers. I like you.”

Tristan sighed, pressing his forehead against Aran's. "You do?" he asked quietly. "You mean it?"

“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” Cornflower blue eyes like the reflection of the sky in a still pond peered up at him. “You after wanting to show me where you found them? We can go roll around there.”

"They were just… by the side of the road. Past the chemist's. A mile or so from here maybe. There's a few of them on the way to the pier, I think. But it doesn't really matter." He reached up to brush a spot of mud from Aran's temple. His coppery blonde curls were just starting to get dry, wisps that kissed his forehead. "Can I ask you something?"

“Hm?”

 _What are we? What are we doing?_ He stared at Aran for a long while, unable to ask the questions. Perhaps they didn't need any answers. Perhaps Aran didn't know them either, even if Tristan asked. They'd been friends since they were children, and now they were something else, and that something was new and bright and exciting in so many different ways- and Tristan felt completely out of his depth. He let out a soft sigh. "Nevermind." He opened his fingers to let the wilted stems fall to the ground. "Race you back to my place?"

The grin split Aran’s face, brightening his eyes, and a moment later, he was scrambling to his bike, wheels spinning in the mud as he took off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	11. Hoof-Churned Heather (1/2)

## [Aran]

Aran beamed, bent low over the stallion’s neck; the wind was in his teeth, the rain slicking his hair back as he kissed a low hanging branch with his knee and took the stone fence at a gallop. Tristan might well have been a better rider in most respects, but Aran was small and light and fast. He’d always been fast. 

Speed- Ah, it was the best. Letting a sturdy stallion take the lead with only the barest guidance, riding its natural joyous speed like a leaf on the wind. He reined Gilder in as they hit the heather field and looped around to watch Tristan take the last jump. 

“You’ve got no form.”

Yeah, he was going to be a pain in the ass about losing. Aran laughed, “And yet, here I am: the victor.” He shook his head, sniffing as the rain poured over them. “You took the second jump too slow.”

“I didn’t. You took it too fast. You clipped it.”

“How dare you. Gilder doesn’t clip. He was a first class high jumper, weren’t you, boy? Still are, aye?” He patted the buckskin colored stallion. “I’m going to tell Almond on you. She’ll ride roughshod just to spite you for insulting her sire.” 

“She will not.”

Aran rolled his eyes. “Probably not. But she’ll be thinking about it. See if she doesn’t.” Maker, Tristan was pretty when he pouted; lips pursed, eyes narrowed, the glint of defiance in his eyes, like twin stormy seas. Hot rain sliding down the angles of his face, dripping from his chin, dragging at his hair where he’d tied it back from his face. Another few minutes, based on history, and the hair tie would snap from the weight, his hair would come pouring around his shoulders like a pile of golden silk… Aran tilted his head back, eyeing the clear horizon. Hours out unless the winds picked up. A good solid storm, then. He could feel the waiting thunder in his veins. Either that, or his pulse was running wild again. “Race you to the cliffs.”

"You're going to lose, and you know it," Tristan grumbled, urging Sea Spray forward. The dapple grey stallion dashed ahead, easily catching speed, splashing mud and kicking soaked grass behind it as it ran. Tristan crouched low on the saddle, his brows furrowed in determination, his gaze straight ahead of him. A peel of thunder drowned out the clap of their horses' hooves on the dirt road, and lightning split the heavy rainclouds overhead as the sea came into view. Tristan glanced over his shoulder at Aran, grinning fiercely. "Too slow!"

Aran ducked in and urged Gilder on with a shout. The rain beat at his back and his face, streaming into his eyes, but they’d ridden this route a hundred times. He peeled off the road into the heather, throwing sod and dirt behind him as he took the shortcut to the cliffs. “See you there!” he laughed.

He could hear Tristan shouting, but no words reached his ears. He soon saw him steering Sea Spray after him, urging the stallion to go faster. Aran reached the cliffs only seconds before Tristan pulled on his horse's reins behind him. 

"You're a cheater," he spat at him, narrowing his eyes as he reached down to pat Sea Spray's neck. "A cheating cheater."

“They’re your rules, Tris,” he grinned, smoothing his hand over Gilder’s shoulder as the bay bent to nibble at the grass. “Turnabout is fair play.”

Tristan clicked his tongue and looked away. "You're following your own rules, clearly," he retorted. "We never said we could ride through the fields. Your win is void."

“Victory at any cost is your motto, not mine. When you’re trying to drown me that’s fine, but I can’t ride through some heather? Poor sport.” He sniffed, scrubbing his hand through his hair as the clouds above the sea lit from within. 

"Drown you? Please. You're unkillable. Like small rodents. Very hard to get rid of."

“Doesn’t stop you trying.” He sat back in his saddle, crossing his arms. “So. I win. And, as the winner, I get a prize.”

"Nope. No prize. You didn't win fairly," Tristan pouted.

“I feckin’ did.”

"I do not acknowledge your win."

“You never bloody do, Ser Pouts-a-Lot.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. "I do not pout. And I never say anything when you don't cheat. But you always do. Because you know you can't beat me  _ unless _ you cheat. Because I'm better. Obviously."

“Well done!” Aran cackled, slapping his knee. “Ah, that was good! Not a single true word in that one and you kept a straight face.”

"I did not- Maker, you're annoying," Tristan huffed, gathering the reins in his hands as Sea Spray danced lightly on his legs. "Let's go back."

“Say I won.”

"I'd sooner chew on a rock."

“That can be arranged.” Aran narrowed his eyes on him. “Tris. Give in. Once. What’s it going to do? Kill you?”

"Admit that you're a cheater first."

He snorted. “No. No way. I’m not.  _ You _ are. I’ll give you that.”

Tristan shrugged, crossing his arms. "Then you didn't win."

“If I said I cheated, it would invalidate my win. I’m not stupid, mate.”

"I beg to differ."

Aran stared at him. The wind was picking up, throwing the wet strands of his hair around him where he sat. Fat droplets of rain gathering on his full lower lip like tears, begging to be licked clean, especially when he thrust it out in defiance like this. “I’m stupid? That’s your position?”

Tristan sniffed, gazing at the waves past the cliff. "You're not not-stupid," he mumbled petulantly. 

“Right.” He flexed his hand on his saddle horn. “You know- I think I will go home. I can get called an idiot by Patrick just as easily.”

Tristan's eyes snapped to him, wide in surprise. "What? No- I didn't-" He frowned. "I didn't call you an idiot."

“Whatever.” He gritted his teeth, glaring out across the bay. “Too stupid. Too small. Too fucking helpless. Useless. I don’t need this shit from you, too-“

"I never said that!" Tristan urged Sea Spray forward, coming closer. He straightened in his saddle, holding his gaze. "I'd  _ never _ say that. You know I wouldn't. You're not stupid or small or useless- or any of that." He bit the inside of his lip, his grip on the reins tightening. "You won. Okay? Fair and square. Name your prize."

“I don’t want your bloody pity.” He bent forward, gripping the horn, letting the rain pelt his back. “I’m not taking some fake win off you just so you can throw it in my face like you always bloody do.”

"It's not a fake win! And I'm not pitying you. You won. That's it. I won't throw it in your face." He leaned over his saddle, catching Gilder's reins. "Hey," he said quietly. "Are you okay?"

“No, I’m not fucking okay,” he snapped, staring at Tristan’s hand on his reins. Wasn’t that the fucking truth. “Why do I always have to be okay? Why does everyone else get to be pissed off or feel shite and I have to just bloody grin and bear everything?”

"You don't have to grin. You don't have to do anything." Tristan's brows gathered in a frown, eyes fixed on him, searching his face. "Why are you not okay? What happened?"

“He won, I guess. Finally. Custody. She’s dropped us all. So. That’s great.” He sniffed, tilting his head back to take the storm on his face. “I don’t think he wanted us, either. Just wanted to keep her around fighting him, aye. But she’s leaving First Day. Some study in the South she’s been putting off. So that’s it.”

Tristan stayed silent for a long moment. He let go of the reins, placing his palm on Aran's knee. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I really am." He let out a small sigh, then gave his knee a gentle squeeze. "You know it has nothing to do with you, right?"

“Doesn’t it?” he laughed. “Really? No. I guess it doesn’t. I mean fuck all to everyone. Pawns on a board, game gets boring, throw the whole thing. Why not? Nothing to do with me. Except I’m stuck here with the rest of the pieces scattered on the floor.”

"You're not a pawn. That's not what I said. What I mean is-" Tristan pressed his lips together for a breath. "What happened is between your mother and your father. It has nothing to do with you or your siblings."

He shook his head roughly. “I didn’t want to talk about this. I don’t know why I am.”

"You can talk to me," Tristan said quickly. "I want- you can-" He glanced away, then back at him. "Want to go somewhere? Out of this rain, preferably?"

“I just wanted to run.” He sagged, pressing his thumb to his eye. “I can’t- Fine.” He drew himself up, grateful for the rain that streamed down his cheeks. “Fine. Yours? Barn? Gate house? What?”

“We can run some more if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Ah, it’s bollocksed now, isn’t it? Storm’s coming in fast.” He frowned at the back of Gilder’s ears, “We should get them dried off.”

Tristan nodded, pulling on Sea Spray’s reins. “Alright. Let’s go to the gate house. Don’t think there’ll be anyone there now.”

“After you,” Aran glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Unless you want to best two out of three? No creek, no bridge, jumps in?”

Tristan’s lips quirked in a smile as he kicked Sea Spray forward. He didn’t waste a breath before urging his horse to a trot, then a gallop, riding straight to the gate house.

“I said ‘unless,’” he shouted after him, drawing Gilder around to give chase. “As in ‘on a mark’, you underhanded git!” Spray was fast, really bloody fast, but Tristan was heavy and he rode like what he was- a player, a performer. All posts and posture. Aran bent flat against Gilder’s back and gave him his head, letting the stallion bolt recklessly. He knew where he was going - away from the storm and the thunder - and that was all the guidance he needed to fly. Speed. Precious speed. The storm at his back and the wind singeing the sides of his face. He laughed with it as they nudged past Tristan on the second jump, clattering down the embankment towards the little stone house, flushed and breathless by the time they reached it. “That’s my lad,” he crooned, sliding off the saddle to drive his heels into the ground a second before Tristan’s. He kissed the side of Gilder’s neck, drenched with rain and hidden sweat. “You’ve got fire, aye, you have.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and scoffed, pushing his hair off his face. The hair tie had snapped, predictably, and now it was hanging over his shoulders, heavy with rain. “Let’s get them in,” he said, guiding Sea Spray towards the small barn.

Bloody feckin’ magically gorgeous. “Say it first.” He jogged to catch up, drawing Gilder along beside him. “Oy. Say it.”

“Say what?” Tristan didn’t turn to look at him as he pulled the door of the nearest stall open.

“That I won! Fairly, this time. Aye?”

Tristan let out a sharp huff. “Maker, alright, you won. You won, you won, you won. Happy now?”

Aran laughed, dropping Gilder’s reins to throw his arms around Tristan, “Aye! Very!” He tugged at Tristan’s hair, tilting his head to peer up at him. “You let me win, huh?”

“Obviously.” Tristan’s lips curled in a smirk, his arms folding around him. “On the rare occasions that you do win, it’s because I let you. Because I’m better. At everything.” He leaned down, rubbing his lips against Aran’s. “And you’re my trusty sidekick.”

“You’re a pain in the arse, Trevelyan,” he rolled his eyes. “But you can keep your delusions of grandeur if they make you happy.”

“Thank you. How very noble of you.”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned up on his toes to kiss the rain from Tristan’s lips. Soft and wet and sweet. Sweeter every time. Addictive. Weird as fuck, the things those lips made him think sometimes. Made him want. “Nutter,” he chuckled, ducking out of his grip to grab the towels from the storage hutch and toss one over to Tristan. “Don’t know why I put up with you.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, grabbing the towel in the air. “Not sure.” His smile still lingered on his lips, but it disappeared mere seconds before he turned away. He patted Sea Spray down, then tossed the towel over the stall door after he’d closed it. “I hope the kettle’s working this time,” he said as he started towards the house. “Dying for some tea.”

“Aye,” he agreed, hanging the tack and setting out the driest hay he could muster. “I’ll be along, yeah? Remember you have to rap it on the bottom!” He wrinkled his nose as Tristan disappeared inside, gathering the horse blankets and brushing both stallions down before he followed him in, kicking off his boots in the doorway. “Luck?”

The water in the electric kettle was already warming up while Tristan rummaged through the cupboards. “Black tea’s gone,” he said, opening a tin and putting it back in its place. “There’s green, though. And coffee.”

“Shite coffee! And cigarettes!” He grinned, falling back on the little couch to throw up a little puff of dust. “Rainy day treats! Afternoon’s looking up after all.”

“Mmhmm.” Tristan pulled the coffee tin from the back of the cupboard, then reached inside another for two mugs. He scrunched his nose when he peered at them. “Doesn’t anyone ever dust this place,” he grumbled, picking up a towel to wipe them down. “Weak or strong?” he asked when the kettle clicked shut. 

“Break my teeth,” he hung off the side of the couch, feeling around beneath it for the old cigar box and its stored cigarettes. “Fuck me, someone’s moved it.”

Tristan glanced at him over his shoulder, brows furrowed. “What the fuck?” He set the mugs down, striding over to him. He crouched next to the couch, peering underneath. He stretched his arm, half lying on the floor. “I think-” he grunted, “-it’s further back than usual.” His sleeve was coated with dust when he brought it out, holding the cigar box. “Well,” he said, sliding the lid open, “someone’s found our stash, it seems.”

“Son of a bitch.” Aran huffed, “Who even comes here besides us and- Ah, bloody Addington! Come on, man!” 

Tristan let out a soft sigh through his nose, setting the box on the coffee table. “At least he didn’t tell Mother. That’s something.” He stood up, walking back to the counter. The smell of fresh coffee soon filled the small room. “We needed to find a new place to store it anyway. It was just begging to be found.” He returned to the couch, holding out a steaming mug before him.

“Barn’s too soggy,” he accepted the mug, sitting back on the couch. “Freezer was weird.”

Tristan hummed, sipping on his coffee. “Could hide it in plain view. An empty coffee tin. A vase.” He glanced around, his gaze stopping at the narrow library by the wall. “On one of those shelves. Could make one of those hollow book boxes and keep them there.” He set his mug down, peeled off his damp jumper with a sigh and tossed it over the radiator. “Plenty of options.” 

There was something about his face when he was solving problems. A little tightness between his eyes, a slight frown, something… Aran squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, and blew on his coffee. “You’re onto something, sure.”

“Maybe.” He settled back down on the couch, wrapping both hands around his warm mug as he brought it to his lips.

“No, you are. The book thing- brilliant. Have to find one that deserves to be cut to pieces. Maybe Braxton’s Study of Declensions. That can go light itself on fire.” 

Tristan snorted. “Yeah. And your Antivan history book. Wouldn’t mind cutting that up.”

“Dick.” He tucked himself alongside Tristan and held the mug to his belly, soaking the heat in. “You like it. You just don’t want to like it.”

“Like it?” Tristan turned to look at him, eyes wide in affront. “ _ Like  _ it?” He huffed a laugh. “Why would you even think that? It’s the most boring topic I’ve ever come across.”

Aran waggled his brows. “That’s just because you’re thinking about it wrong. The merchant princes are all soooo hot.” He ran his tongue across his teeth. “Like- really. Swimmers and riders and sailors.”

“Are they?” Tristan quirked a brow. “I don’t believe you. Need proof.”

“Right, so Caspit - that was Benedicte’s third son - he had this whole fleet that did runs between Antiva and Rivain. And they sailed even during the worst storms. And there were rumors that he kept his crew loyal with-” He winked, “-favors.”

“Favors?” Tristan shifted slightly in his seat to face him, the edges of his lips threatening to curl in a smirk. “What sort of favors?”

“You know-” He turned to match him, bumping his nose against Tristan’s. Still cold from the rain. Still damp. Smelling of storms and lavender. “Things.” He crossed his eyes, flushing. “There’s pages of descriptions of him. He was really, really good looking. There’s a painting in my book you want to burn, but the descriptions are better.”

Tristan hummed, setting his mug on the table. “I’ll take your word for it.” He leaned forward, running his tongue over Aran’s lips. He tasted of coffee and rain, bitter and sweet, warm and cool. “Pages?” he whispered as his hand found its way around Aran’s back. “Just describing what he looked like?” 

“Uh huh,” he laughed and nipped at Tristan’s tongue. “You want me to tell you about him?”

“Mmhmm.” Tristan plucked the mug from Aran’s hands, setting it aside before nudging him back. “Tell me about those favors.”

“Oh.” He bit his lip, watching his mug steam on the table as he folded helplessly to the cushions. “You want to know- about that? Not- I could tell you about- his ships. I could tell you about his ships.”

Tristan gently sucked Aran’s bottom lip, his palm sliding under his sweater. “Alright. Tell me about his ships.”

“Tri-” He swallowed, his glasses steaming. He blinked. “Tri-masters. And- ah, there were six of them. They had- they had twelve guns a piece and- and they were-” He nudged his glasses to his forehead as Tristan’s palm on his skin made him want to squirm. “Decadent. I guess. Gold foil and fancy wall fabrics in the- the-” He met Tristan’s gaze. “You really want to hear about this?”

“I don’t know. You offered.” His palm moved further up Aran’s chest, slowly. Agonisingly slowly. He nuzzled his nose as his thumb brushed over his nipple. “Do you want to tell me about something else?”

“No! No, it’s just har- difficult to remember- all the details when you’re-” He sighed as Tristan’s thumb moved again. Steam on his glasses. Steam from the mugs. Steam in his brain. “You’re dripping on me.”

“You’re not exactly dry yourself.”

“Aye, but you’ve got a mane.” He ran his fingers through the soaked gold, twisting them and catching a few strands between his lips. “Mmm. Rain.”

Tristan pushed himself up on his elbows. “Do you want to stop?”

“What? Stop what?” Aran cocked his head to the side. 

“I don’t know- this.” He smoothed his hair behind his ear, looking away. “We could watch some TV.”

“Oh.” He itched his brow, folding his jumper up and dragging his glasses off to clean them on his tee shirt. “Ah. Okay? I guess?”

Tristan sat up without a word, reaching for the remote. He flicked through the channels as he sipped on his coffee, stopping when he came across an old black and white movie. He seemed to have entirely forgotten Aran was there when he set the remote on the arm rest next to him and settled back on the cushions.

Pissed. Maker only knew why.

“‘Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now’?” He tucked his glasses back to his face and retrieved his coffee. “‘How comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of the air and the endless freshets of wind?’”

Tristan shot him a sidelong frown, then looked back at the screen.

“‘And don’t you think the trees, especially those with mossy hollows, are beginning to look for the fires that will come - six, a dozen - to sleep inside their bodies?’” He tucked his feet under Tristan’s leg, watching him. “‘And don’t you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond stiffens and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its long blue shadows.’” He squinted, wiggling his toes, “‘The wind wags its many tails.’”

Tristan let out a sigh through his nose, jaw clenching. “‘And in the evening the piled firewood shifts a little longing to be on its way’,” he mumbled, bringing his cup to his lips.

“Wasn’t sure you’d know that one. Of course you do.” He glanced at the television, then back at Tristan. “You get one.”

“What?”

“I told you what’s under my skin. You tell me the burr under your saddle.”

Tristan’s gaze remained fixed on the screen, but the colours in his cheeks warmed and brightened. “There’s no burr under my saddle.”

“Oh! Okay. My mistake. Seemed like you were irked. This a new look you’re trying out for super-chill, totally fine?”

Tristan tongued his teeth. Still -stubbornly- not looking at him. “Perhaps it is.”

“Ooh.  _ Perhaps _ ! Well!” He tilted to the side. “Perhaps I’ll do a new one, too. How’s this?” He wrinkled his nose and tried to touch his tongue to the tip. 

Tristan rolled his eyes, pushing to his feet. “Is everything a bloody joke to you?” He crossed the room and sat on the windowsill, nursing his mug against his chest.

Aran huffed, tightening his jaw against the dark that swelled under his skin again. Stupid storm. Stupid cigarettes. Stupid Caspit of Antiva. He tucked his knees up and stared at the mug on the table as the flickering lights from the television illuminated and shadowed it and the steam softened in the air like smoke. He shouldn’t have said anything. For a moment, he’d thought it was better, having gotten the annoyance and hurt out of him, spewing it into the air. But now it was just  _ in the air, _ floating around him, oily against his skin. Infecting everything he touched like the Taint. Stupid Aran. He bit his knee. Stupid stupid. 

What in the Void was wrong with Tristan anyway? 

_ Stupid question, Aran. He had to listen to you whinging like a bloody toddler. Enough to put anyone off their tea.  _

_ Why, thank you, brain. Shut up, now. _

He glanced towards Tristan and sighed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not your problem.” He bit at the side of his thumb, “Could play chess if you want?”

Tristan frowned at him. “What isn’t my problem?”

“Anything. Any of the- stupid drama.” He eyed Tristan over the back of his hand, “I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“What drama? Your family? I’m not pissed off.” He held his mug protectively before him with both hands, his frown deepening. “Why would you think I’m pissed off because of that?”

“Dunno. I am. Figured it was contagious.” 

“Well, you figured wrong,” Tristan said indignantly. “I want you to talk to me about it. I always want to talk about it. And earlier, I asked you to tell me about it, because I want to hear it. But you never-” He stopped abruptly, clenching his jaw. “I’d never get pissed off because of that. I’m your friend. Your-” he paused, cleared his throat, “your friend. Who are you going to talk to about all that if not me?”

“No one. Also not your-“ He shrugged. “Okay. So if it’s not that, what’s climbed up your butt?”

“Maker, nothing’s-” He rolled his eyes, huffing. “Nothing’s climbed up my butt. I just thought- I thought you wanted to watch TV. That’s all.”

“You said you wanted to.”

“I asked if you wanted to and you said yes.”

“Because you-” He widened his eyes, slapped himself in the face, and fell back on the couch.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t hear you.” He folded himself into the couch cushions. “You’re far away and I can’t hear you. Where are you? Where am I?” He made a show of grabbing at the back of the sofa as he slid between it and the cushions. “Oh, it’s eating me! It’s eating me! It’s aliiiive!”

Tristan snorted, setting his mug on the windowsill. He walked over to the sofa, leaning over it with a quirked brow. “Where are you? Reached the belly of the beast yet?”

“Aaaah! The biiiiile! It buuuurns!” He buried his head under the cushions and began wiggling under the rest. “Oh, look, here’s Lady Fraser’s hairpiece! Aaaah! So many teeeeeeth! It’s killing meeeee!”

Tristan grabbed his ankles, pulling him out. “There. I saved you. What do I win?”

“My hero!” He rolled sideways, resting the back of his hand on his forehead. “What do you want to win?” 

“Dunno,” Tristan shrugged, coming to sit beside him. “What do you have to offer?”

“Uh… tutoring?” he smiled winningly.

“Sure. As long as it’s not history.” Tristan switched the TV off, then leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms. “I’m listening.”

“Math? Bio? Chem?”

“Uh…” Tristan brushed his knuckle over his chin. “None of the above?”

“You still mad at me?” he asked, flexing his fingers against Tristan’s palm.

“No.” He turned his palm over, slanting a sideways glance at him. “I’m not mad. I’m fine.”

“Missed you over there.” He poked at the base of Tristan’s thumb. “You want to stop?”

“Stop what?”

“The… you know. Things. You want to stop.”

Tristan withdrew his hand, tucking it under his arm. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“No, I just- you said you did and if that’s- That’s okay, if it’s what you want. You don’t have to hide across the room.”

“Who’s bloody- I’m not hiding. I’m not.” He crossed his arms tighter before him. “It just… it didn’t seem like you were in the mood. I thought you wanted to stop. I don’t want to press you.”

“You’re strong, but I don’t think you can press me. I’m more than your weights.”

“Are you?” Tristan smirked. “Really? Last time I checked you weighed as much as a twig. A very small one, too.”

“Bite me,” he sniffed. “I’m not that small.”

“Alright. Maybe not that small.” He uncrossed his arms, pressing his palms to his knees. “So. What do you want to do?”

Aran itched the side of his nose. “Not watch TV.”

“Okay. Chess?”

“Sure. Unless...” He ran a hand through his hair and fiddled a bit of couch grit free. “Can I braid your hair again?”

“Oh.” Tristan’s gaze flicked to him, then back away. “Sure. Okay.” He shifted on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. “Where do you want me?”

“Here.” He sat back, spreading his legs and patting the cushion between. “Yeah?”

Tristan nodded, sliding back towards him. He shook his hair out, breaking out the damp strands. “Good?”

“Aye.” He combed his fingers through the cool, breathing in the scent of him as he did, and settling his knees on either side of him. “I like your hair.”

“I like you,” Tristan sighed and leaned into his touch, then jolted up, tensing. “I mean- I like you doing that. My hair. Good. It’s good.”

“Good,” he repeated. “Good. I like to. I like you, too.” He collected his hair into sections, squeezing the water out as he did. “You shouldn’t ever cut this. You might lose your powers.”

Tristan snorted. “What powers?”

“Dunno. Spinning gold. Riding through clouds. Winning against Balundron.”

"Who's that? Another merchant prince?"

“Nah- that’s the Sea Prince of Rivain. Just one of him.”

"Huh." Tristan tilted his head to the side as Aran ran his fingers through his hair. "Bet I could beat him. At swimming, probably. Or riding. Don't think Sea Princes ride very well."

“He’d probably wreck you at swimming. But sure- riding. Unless it was seahorses.” He plaited the strands, enjoying the feel of his hair like slick satin under his thumbs. “How are you at riding seahorses?”

Tristan hummed in amusement. "Bet I could learn pretty fast. I'm a quick study. You should learn, too. Then there'd be one more thing I'd be better at than you."

He tugged at one of the plaits. “Sorry, what was that?”

"I said," Tristan grunted, "I would probably beat you at seahorse riding as easily as I beat you at regular horse riding."

He sighed. “You’re really irritating.”

"You're twice as irritating as I am." He turned around to face him. "You irritate me."

“Well, that’s not surprising. You’re allergic to bloody everything.”

Tristan frowned. "You in particular."

“So you don’t want to kiss me anymore. Got it.” He took hold of the top of Tristan’s head and tried to turn him. “You’re mucking up my braid. I’ll have to start over.”

Tristan took hold of his wrist, bringing his hand down. "What do you want from me?"

“I just said- to braid your hair.”

"Is that all you want?"

“When?”

"Now. Later. Tomorrow. Next week." He gazed at him, his expression growing serious. "What do you want?"

“I don’t understand.” Why? Why was he somber suddenly? About what? He twisted Tristan’s hair around his fingers, nervous for no discernible reason. “Want with what?”

"With me, Aran. With me. What do you want? What- what are we? What are we doing?"

Aran squinted at him. “I don’t-” He frowned. “I-” What did he want with him? Didn’t he have that? “We’re waiting out the storm.” He bit his lip. “What do you mean? We’re us. I thought. Are we not?” 

"Yes, obviously we're us, but what is this  _ us? _ I don't-" He paused, worrying the inside of his lip. "We're mates. Right? Who kiss occasionally. Nothing more, nothing less. Or am I wrong?"

Why did he suddenly feel like he was trying to breathe water? “You… You don’t want to be boyfriends anymore?” When had he stopped? Why hadn’t he said something? Was that why he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone? Had he not wanted it in the first place? Had he just been- No, he liked it. He  _ liked _ it. Didn’t he? Could he fake  _ that _ ? Why would he?

Tristan pressed his eyes shut with a sharp exhale. He opened them again, glaring at the far wall. "Are we? Boyfriends?" He turned that glare to him. "Has anything even changed between us other than us making out here and there? You’re always picking fights with me. You never listen to anything I say. You barely even talk to me about what’s bothering you. I don't think that's what boyfriends are like. Do you? Besides- do you even  _ want  _ a boyfriend?"

“What is that supposed to mean?” He pressed his thumb to the center of his forehead, trying to sort through the questions. “What- What is it supposed to be? Was something supposed to change? What- What did you- You don’t like- What?”

"I don't know what it's supposed to be, but I don't think it's this." He edged back, crossing his arms. "Do you even like me? Or do you just like making out with me?"

“Wh-” He blew out his cheeks, bewildered. “Of course I like you. What- I mean, you’re freaking me out right now. I don’t know what’s happening. What’s happening?”

" _ Nothing  _ is happening. I'm just asking you-" Tristan let out a slow exhale through his nose, watching him through narrowed eyes. "Fine. You know what? Fine. You don't want to answer, you don't have to."

“I want to answer. I don’t know what the question is!” He pulled his knee up to his chest, hugging it. “You- You don’t like what we’re doing? You don’t- Why didn’t you say if you didn’t want to be- Nothing is happening?”

"I-" Tristan ran his fingers through his hair, huffing. "It's fine. Yeah? What we're doing- it's fine. I just don't know what it is. And I don't think you're interested in finding out or- or doing anything more. That's all."

“You don’t?” He frowned. “And that’s… up to you, is it? Like everything else?”

"What is up to me? What do you mean?"

“You say where we go and what we do and who can know and all the rest of it. If there was something you wanted that wasn’t that, you could have very well said so. Now you’re telling me that I don’t want- what? I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought we were good. If we’re not, that’s news to me.”

Tristan gaped at him for a moment before his eyes narrowed, his cheeks turning rosy pink. "I say where we go? I say what we do? Since when? When did you ask me to do something and I said no? And since when do you want people to know about us? And what  _ exactly _ do you want them to know?"

“I wanted to tell Tilly from the start. You didn’t.” He gritted his teeth. “And you didn’t want to go to the thing at Bellinda’s. And you didn’t want me touching you at the diner. And I didn’t care who knows so long as it didn’t get back to my Da- because he’d be a pain in the arse about me going to yours if he knew, and Patrick would hang me upside down from the apple tree and hit me with a stick. And and and.” He hugged his knee tighter. “You’re the one who doesn’t want anything. You always turn everything around on me.”

"I  _ do _ want things! And I don't turn everything around on you, you do that all the time-" Tristan rolled his eyes. "I didn't want to go to Bellinda's because it would just be you and the hens- and I have nothing to talk about with them. And-"

“So? I have loads in common with your mongrels, do I?”

Tristan glared at him. "My friends are not  _ mongrels _ . You don't like hanging out with them, you're under no obligation to do so."

“I bloody well am if I want to see you at school and you know it.”

"You don't have to see me at school if you don't like the company I keep," Tristan spat. "I've never said anything about  _ your _ friends, and Maker knows I have plenty to say. I'm just not like you to rub it in people's faces that I don't like them-"

“Oh, aye, do you not? Name five. Name five of my friends.”

"Is this a game? Are we playing a game here? Alright then. Give me five reasons why my friends are mongrels, despite the fact that they've never been anything but civil with you."

“See- this is you. You change the rules to suit you. I’m trying to keep time, meanwhile you’ve decided you want something else and I’m supposed to - what? Read your mind? Intuit? So - what- you never cheat, because you make all the rules. You do whatever you want. And I’m your  _ sidekick _ .  _ That’s _ what you think of me. You think I’m this little  _ thing _ that clings onto you like a fucking ramora. Like I need you to  _ survive _ . I don’t  _ need _ you, Tristan. I like you. Sometimes.” He shoved from the couch. “Not much at the bloody moment. You want to throw me over, great. Join the club. I don’t need anything or anyone. I’m fine.”

Tristan stayed silent for a while. A long while. He crossed his arms again, let out a long, slow exhale through his nose. "I don't need you either," he muttered. "And I don't like you." He snapped his lips shut, his gaze drifting to the window.

Aran tried to swallow and felt his throat stick. He wrapped his arms around himself and tightened his jaw as he felt heat rise behind his eyes. “Aye. No fucking shit.” He kicked the table and stalked back into the rain. 


	12. Hoof-Churned Heather (2/2)*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild NSFW ahead.

Aran had just crossed the threshold of the stables when he heard Tristan’s angry footsteps behind him. 

“You think you know fucking everything, don’t you?” His eyes were narrowed in a glare, his jaw clenched, that vein in the middle of his forehead pulsing. His soaked strands hung limply around his face, his white tee shirt clinging to his skin, transparent. “You have answers for every bloody thing except for the things I ask you. I make all the rules? Me? You’re the one that treats me like an idiot all the time. You undermine me every chance you get. You talk shite about my friends, about what I do with my time except for when I’m with you. Nothing I do pleases you. You’re always judging me, ticking things off in your brain, storing them for later so you can throw them in my face when it suits you!” A bright flush had crept up his cheeks, his nostrils flaring as he took in a sharp breath. “And I’ve told you why I don’t want people to know. I told you, but you never fucking listen. If Tilly knows, Mother might find out. If she finds out, she might not let me invite you as often, or have Addington breathing down our necks. And if our friends know, then Patrick might hear, and then your father, and then-“ He wiped rain from his eyes with an annoyed grunt. “We’ve  _ talked _ about this. You never listen to me. I’m just your stupid feckin' tadger of a mate that you can say anything you want to and never care about the consequences, because there aren’t any. You don’t care about me, and I know you don’t need me. I just don’t understand what you’re doing with me since you hate me so bloody much.” He crossed his arms before his chest, glaring at him. 

Aran gaped at him, “Hate you? I hate you now?” He shoved his bangs back as the thunder shouted in the distance. “Where is this coming from? What-“ He squeezed his eyes shut. “I  _ know _ we talked about it. I just- I don’t like it. It feels like lying. I don’t want to lie to Tilly. I don’t want to lie about things that are good. You’re good. You are. When you’re not a demonic bellwether.”

“I’m not a-” Tristan grumbled irritably under his breath, kicking at the dirt under his feet. “I don’t want to lie either. I hate lying. I hate hiding things from Tilly. I don’t- I don’t like this.” He scrubbed at his eyes, sniffing. “But what else can we do? I don’t want your family finding out about- about  _ us _ . I don’t want your father to yell at you or Patrick- that bloody-” His foot sent a pebble flying when he kicked again. “I don’t- I don’t want to have to stop seeing you because of all that. It’s stupid and unfair and-”

“Aye. Aye, it is.” He sniffed, grateful for the rain and the screaming storm and- “You’re not stupid. Or a tadger.” He felt his lip tremble along with the thunder. “I care. I care- I care about you. I- I do. I- Some days you’re the only good thing I’ve got and I’m-“ His eyes hurt, burned. He bit his lip, barreling forward to shove his face against Tristan’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him and his wet shirt and his crossed arms and everything. “I don’t hate you, Tris; I’ll never hate you.”

Tristan grunted softly with the force of the impact. He uncrossed his arms, hugging him tightly. “I don’t hate you either,” he said, his voice thick and strained. “And I do like you. And I care about you, I do-” He sniffled, pressing his cheek to the side of Aran’s head. “I’m sorry about your mum. I’m sorry things turned out like that. I’m- if- if things are shite, come stay with me. Stay with me.” He pulled him tighter against him, burying his nose in his hair. “We’re here for each other no matter what, remember?”

“No matter what,” he repeated, turning to tuck his face into the crook of Tristan’s neck. Like a key turning in a lock. There. That was it. He sighed. “Tris. My da yells anyway. And Patrick’s always going to be Patrick. I don’t care, okay? I don’t care if they find out anymore. I don’t. I like you. I like this. Even if it’s not boyfriends. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s good and I like it.”

“I like it, too. It’s good. We’re good.” Tristan let out a soft sigh. “I know you don’t care if they find out, but I do. I don’t want them to have one more thing to badger you about. They’ve enough as it is.” He rocked a little as he held him. “So we’re not boyfriends, are we?”

“Says you,” he whispered, rubbing his nose on Tristan’s neck. Warm. Even in the cold and wet, he was warm against his chest and under his hands. “You said we’re not.”

“I didn’t say that,” Tristan mumbled. “I said- right, it doesn’t matter what I said.” He leaned back to look at him. “Do you want us to be boyfriends?”

“I thought we were and wasn’t complaining. Not about that.” He squinted up at Tristan. Storms in his eyes as surely as the one blowing in from the sea. “Aye, mate. Haven’t I just been saying? I do. I do.” He poked around Tristan’s back. “I do and I want to tell people and I don’t care.”

Tristan snorted, leaning down to brush his lips over his. “It tickles,” he chuckled, his muscles tightening under Aran’s fingers.

“I want to, I want to, I want to,” he prodded and leaned and kissed. Cold and hot. All wet. He licked the rain from Tristan’s lips, “Don’t care if it tickles. Don’t care if it irritates. Don’t care if you’re allergic. Kisses from boyfriends. You have to deal with it.”

“Alright, alright, I will.” Tristan laughed, biting Aran’s bottom lip. “Want to kiss your boyfriend somewhere that’s not bloody freezing, at least?”

He nodded, tucking his face back against Tristan’s neck. “Wimp.”

Tristan huffed, pulling him back to the house. "If I catch a cold, it'll be your fault."

“Sure, but according to you, everything’s my fault. So…” He kicked his boots back off and shook his head, spraying water as they stepped back inside. “What’s the difference?”

"I never said that everything's your fault," Tristan said, taking off his shoes and sitting on the couch. "Most things are, but not all." He leaned back on the cushions, stretching his legs. "Like that one time you spilled raspberry juice on the chaise lounge? That was my fault. Should have kept an eye on you."

Aran peeled his soaked jumper off over his head and threw it at Tristan’s head. “I never. Bloody. Spilled. That feckin’. Juice.”

"Keep telling yourself that." Tristan tossed Aran's jumper over the back of a chair and grinned at him. "Come over here."

Aran scowled. “You think you can just spin your tales and convince me to do whatever you want.” He wrinkled his nose. “There will come a day when there will be a reckoning. You mark my words.”

"Alright. Fine. I will." He held his hand out, beckoning him. "Now get your arse here."

“I’ll do what I like with my arse, thank you very much.” He sniffed, lifting his chin, and wandered closer to the couch, wringing his tee shirt out as he went. “What do you want?”

"I want to sit on this couch with my boyfriend." He lifted his brows. "What do you want?"

“Hmph.” He dropped onto the cushions next to him and kicked his heels out, crossing his arms. “Now what?”

Tristan shifted closer to him. "Now I'd like to kiss you. Do you want me to?"

Aran narrowed his eyes. “Maybe. A little.”

"Only a little?"

“Some. A bit. A smidge.”

Tristan's lips were warm when they pressed against his temple. "Like this?"

“Aye.” He glanced at the edges of Tristan’s face out of the corner of his eye. “Not really a boyfriend kind of kiss. But aye. Fine.”

Tristan moved lower, kissing his cheek. "Better now?"

Close again. Close and warming and good. “I guess you’re the expert,” he sighed. “This is what you meant then? More of this? Less the other? That makes us boyfriends?”

"What other?" He placed his arm over Aran's shoulders, pulling him close as he slid his lips to his. "This?"

“Mmhmm,” he hummed against his lips. “You don’t like this. No more of this.”

"I do like this." Tristan sighed, his tongue gliding gently over Aran's bottom lip. "Do you like this?"

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Can’t be buggered.”

Tristan leaned back, frowning. "We can stop if you can't be buggered."

He rolled his eyes, laughing at the crunch of his brow. “Aye, Tris. Aye, I like it. I spend half my time glued to your face. Of course I like it.” He nudged his nose. “Oy. Kisses. I want them. Please and thank you.”

Tristan huffed. "Is it so hard for you to just say so from the start?"

“You said I like making out with you too much.” He squinted. “I was trying a thing. No good?”

"I never said that! I just said that you- that you-" He rolled his eyes. "Forget what I said. It doesn't matter." He leaned forward to kiss him, shifting closer still. "I like that you like making out with me. It would suck loads if you didn't. Considering you spend so much time glued to me."

Aran nodded, nuzzling against his nose as he eased back to the cushions, tugging Tristan with him. “Do you? Like it?”

Tristan sighed against his lips, settling on top of him. "I do. I really do." He nudged Aran's lips open with his tongue, his palm gliding up his arm. "It feels so nice. Your lips are very soft. And I like it when you bite me."

“Aye?” It felt so good to be weighed down, pressed to the cushions so he couldn’t float away. “I like you. I like biting you.” He tugged at Tristan’s shirt. “Still dripping on me.”

Tristan pulled his shirt up, breaking the kiss just long enough to toss it on the floor. "So are you. We're both drenched." He slid his palm under Aran's shirt, dragging it up. "We should take a hot shower after we go back home."

Aran laughed. “Right.” He arched up, helping Tristan peel his shirt the rest of the way off. “But that doesn’t help if you’re already sick, eh?” Better. Loads better. Skin to skin. Colder, but better. He slid his hands over Tristan’s back, rubbing them against him to generate some heat. “What are we not doing?”

Tristan hummed, pressing kisses along the line of his jaw. "Hm?"

“What’s it supposed to be?” he asked, only slightly muffled by Tristan’s hair. “If this isn’t it, what is?”

Tristan froze. He lifted his head, blinking at him. “I… I’m not sure.” He bit his lip, glancing away, then back at him. “I just- I guess sometimes it feels like we’re… just friends. We don’t do the things that… boyfriends do. We don’t do anything more than what we used to. We just make out when we’re alone.” A light flush was creeping up his cheeks, his eyes darting away and back. “You know?”

“Can’t do it around people, can we?” he smiled sideways. “Right. Like what?” He traced Tristan’s shoulder blade with his fingers, following the line around his shoulder and across his collarbone. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Well- like- like- right.” He ran his tongue over his lips, watching him. “Remember when Cardew was dating that girl from West Flitwick? They used to text all the time.”

“We text all the time.”

“Yeah- but- he also took her on dates.”

“What dates?”

“I don’t know- to the movies, I think? And to that Antivan place that opened before the summer. And he bought her flowers. I gave you that flower I found the other day and you stared at me like I’d lost my mind.”

He blew out his cheeks. He’d kept the bloody flowers after Tristan had looked so heartbroken, shoving their remains into his journal when he’d gotten home. What was he supposed to do with flowers? Watch them decay? There were flowers all over, in every field. What did he need them in his pocket for? “We go to movies. And we eat.” Like hell he was going to admit he’d kept the stupid posies. Knowing Tristan, he’d end up buried in them in a week and having to figure out what the Void to do with them. He couldn’t just throw things away that Tristan gave him. He was going to run out of room. “You want me to buy you a plant? You can’t get one yourself?”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t want you to get me a feckin’ plant, I’m just  _ saying. _ I know we do all those things as friends but- I think it’s different when you’re doing it with your boyfriend. Or it should be.”

“How?”

He frowned, idly tracing Aran’s collarbone with his finger. “Cardew used to tell Martina she’s pretty when they went on dates,” he mumbled. “You tell me I’m annoying and then you throw your popcorn at me.”

“You  _ are _ annoying. And you’re getting really good at catching the popcorn. Like a trained seal.”

“Right- see?!” Tristan huffed, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Now you just said I’m annoying  _ and _ called me a seal. You shouldn’t be calling your boyfriend a seal. I don’t remember Cardew ever calling Martina a-”

“Seals are cool.” Aran walked his fingers across Tristan’s chest and down his ribs. “And Martina’s not cool. She’s boring. All she talks about is shoes. That’s probably all he could say to her. ‘You’re pretty’. Nothing else there.”

“He liked her well enough. And there were plenty of nice things he said to her. You never say anything nice to me.”

“Do, too.”

Tristan quirked a brow. “Say one nice thing about me now, then.”

“I like how you weigh me down.”

“That’s the only nice thing you could think of? That I’m heavy?”

“No… Just- you only asked for one.” His cheeks got all flushed when he was irked. Aran bit his lip, “You want another?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Yes. I do.”

“You’ve got nice hair.” He lifted his brows. “I’ve told you that before.”

“Thank you.”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, letting his knuckles bump down the muscles of Tristan’s chest. “If you don’t want me to call you annoying anymore… you could always be less annoying. That’s an option.”

“Or,” Tristan said poignantly, “you could stop getting annoyed so easily. That’s also an option.”

“I mean… sure. But you’re really, really annoying, though. Like. The way you ride. And the way you’re always tossing your hair like a filly. And the way you eat crisps like a mouse. And how you always turn the television on but then you don’t watch it, so we just have to talk over the people on the screen. What is the point of that? Ambient lighting?” Aran brushed his thumb across Tristan’s navel, “I guess I can pick one of them to be less annoyed by.”

“How does the way I eat crisps irritate you exactly? Or tossing my hair- I don’t toss my hair. I-” He shivered, his muscles tensing under Aran’s touch. “I say you pick two. At least. Or three. I’m your boyfriend, you shouldn’t be annoyed by me.”

“You’re bossy, too. And a really bad loser. I bet Martina didn’t push Carp-face around. Or put him in headlocks. Or shove him into mud. Or tell him he looks like a pruned tadpole.”

“You do look like a tadpole.” Tristan chuckled, rocking against him. “And I like shoving you. And putting you in headlocks. You do it, too, you know, and I never complain.”

“Never once have I put you in a headlock.” Aran narrowed his eyes at him. “Anyway, my point is- dull. Dull as snails. Since when do you want to be like Carp-face, anyway?” His fingers tripped lower then danced back to his navel. “Hm?” 

Tristan sighed, brushing his tongue over Aran’s lips. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I just-” he hummed when Aran’s fingers trailed lower again. “I just think we should be nicer to each other. And do things that boyfriends do. That’s all.”

“We do things we like to do. Isn’t that better than- whatever- killing plants and paying money to see a movie you’re not going to watch because you’re snogging?” He squinted. “Actually. We’ve done that. So. Boyfriend test passed.”

“Alright. Fine. We passed one test. There’s a few more left.” Tristan closed his teeth over Aran’s bottom lip. “Don’t you want me to say something nice to you?”

He darted his tongue out to taste his teeth even as suspicion bloomed. “Like what?” he asked, lip caught in a vice.

“I don’t know. You have nice hands.” He brought Aran’s hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I like your fingers. They have a nice shape.”

“They’re finger-shaped.”

“Yes, but there are shapely fingers and not-so-shapely fingers. Yours are pretty.” He flicked his tongue over his fingertips then closed his lips over his index finger. “I like them.”

The words made him warm. The touch of his lips made him ache uncomfortably. And the sight of him with those lips wrapped around his finger again… “All the time you’re spending ogling people’s hands. No wonder you don’t study.”

Tristan smirked, sliding his lips off his finger. “I think you might be a little responsible for my not studying. Whenever we’re together we just make out instead of doing our homework.” He playfully bit his middle finger. “I’ve no complaints.”

“I try to help you,” he dampened his lips. “You’re always… making it difficult to concentrate.” He rolled his hips, swallowing. “You’re- What- What are you doing with your tongue?”

Tristan smiled around his finger, swiping his tongue over its length as he drew it deeper. "Do you like it?"

Aran nodded, watching him attentively. “Aye. Liked it before, too, just wasn’t… looking before.” He bit his lip. “This one of your tests?” 

"Maybe." He slowly took in another finger, rolling his tongue over his fingertips. "I think I'm doing quite well so far," he mumbled, grinning. "I like it." He brushed his thumb over Aran's bottom lip, dragging it down gently. "I like it when you do it, too."

“I remember-” He flicked his tongue out to taste Tristan’s thumb. Salt and rain and the hint of coffee. He rolled his tongue around the digit as Tristan had, studying his eyes. Dark and blue and so full that he could stare at them for hours to watch the thoughts pass through like clouds. He shifted his hips down, rolling them against Tristan’s thigh as he moved- The denim was soaked and stiff from the rain, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care because it was so good. The weight of him and the pressure and the feel of his thumb on his tongue, sliding back and forth between his lips, and the way Tristan’s eyes changed as they did. Deepening, focusing. What did he know, anyway? He’d never had a boyfriend before. Neither of them had. It bloody well was going to be what boyfriends did - this and everything else. He slurped Tristan’s thumb all the way into his mouth, tracing it with his tongue inside of his mouth. 

"I like the way your tongue feels," Tristan sighed, watching him, his lids growing heavy. He slid his mouth off Aran's fingers, leaning down to kiss him around his thumb. "You feel so good. I just want to-" He rocked against him, pressing him deeper into the cushions, humming at the back of his throat. "I want to do this all the time. I think about it all the time."

“Hmm?” This? He wondered. Which this? The way Tristan pressed on him, that filled his dreams? The way Tristan ground down on his thigh or his hip in this way that woke Aran with wet starts more often than not? The way he kissed him until his heart was beating like drums in his ears? Or the way everything - all of him - his smell and the feel of him and the look in his eyes and the touch of his skin made Aran tight and twitchy and great and terrible all at the same time? He moaned despite himself, humming around Tristan’s thumb. The power of having Tristan in his mouth, gazing at him, wanting him, focused on him for this time- 

"I like you," Tristan whispered, his tongue cool and slick as it glided smoothly along his jaw, gathering the dew that lingered on his skin. "I like you. A lot." He sighed, nuzzling his ear, flexing his thumb in Aran's mouth. A soft moan vibrated in his chest when he closed his teeth over his earlobe, tugging gently. "I like spending time with you. More than anything."

He sighed as his eyes fell shut; the feel of Tristan’s teeth on his skin, pulling, sending sharp zings of electricity through his veins, while he shifted around and over his tongue- He swallowed, pressing his thigh up between Tristan’s legs- Just to see- Just to feel if he was as painfully aching- and to feel him- That. He could think of little else, when he ran out of things to distract himself. When it was quiet and he was alone - Void, he didn’t even have to be alone. Study halls were becoming torturous. That. That pressure. The line of heat. That- He realized he was salivating and sucked the drool off Tristan’s thumb. 

Tristan groaned, rolling his hips over his thigh. "Ah, that feels good." He thrust down slowly, grinding against him as he licked and nipped at his neck. "I like- when you do that. When you touch me and-" He flicked his tongue over the dip of his collarbone, letting out a sigh. "Your skin is so soft. And it tastes… ah, it tastes-" He surged back up, pulling out his thumb and replacing it with his tongue. "It's sweet. And salty. And you. You-" He moaned, biting on Aran's lip. "I like the way you taste."

Aran hummed, shivering, sucking on Tristan’s tongue as soon as he stopped- talking- Maker, barely get a word out of him some days but when he wanted to just lick and kiss and suck on that warm, slick muscle, Tristan wouldn’t bloody stop wagging it. He sank his fingers into Tristan’s hair to hold him steady so he could focus- focus on the twining and the twisting, the way he flexed against him, the taste of him carrying the taste of himself and- He raked his palm down Tristan’s back, stopping just short of his waistband, pressing at his lower back to try to bring him against him more, harder, more- Maker, more- “Tris-” he gasped when he came up for air. Not enough. Not nearly. He licked at Tristan’s lip, trying to catch his breath. “I want- I like- You- You taste-” He felt too warm, couldn’t remember being cold anymore, every point of contact was heat- The whole of his belly and chest, his arms, his hands- “I like you on my tongue. Tris.” He pressed his lips to Tristan’s hard, “I want- I want-”

Tristan groaned, sliding his tongue deep into Aran's mouth, tracing his teeth. "I think about you. All the time. You do things to me- you make me feel- ah-" He sighed as his palm skimmed his chest, his sides, fingers brushing his hip bone. His fingers curled over it, clasping hard as he drove himself against him. "I feel so good when I'm with you," he panted. "I want your hands on me. All over me. The way you touch me- I want- I want you-"

Aran skimmed his fingers across Tristan’s waist. “All over?” he whispered, breathless. 

"Yes," he nodded, panting, kissing him harder, "yes- all- all over-"

Aran thrust his hand between them and folded his palm around that bulge that had been pressing to his thigh. Hard. Harder than it felt against his leg. His fingers curled around it and he could  _ feel _ Tristan- 

A strangled moan caught in Tristan's throat, his breath hot and sharp against his lips. He froze, glancing down at Aran's hand, then back at him. "You-" he started, swallowing. "That's-" His eyes fell closed, his lips parting on another moan.

“Okay?”  _ Feel _ him.  _ Feel _ the- the whole of him. The shape. Glimpses of that shape through shorts, but never- Thick and hard-  _ Really _ hard- Did he feel the same way? He felt like- like- Aran flexed his fingers around him. “It’s okay?”

"It is- it's-" Tristan's eyes were still closed, his brows drawn together. He thrust forward slowly, biting down hard on his lip. "It's okay. Yes."

When he moved, it flexed. Aran grinned, squeezing just a little. More flex. A slight give that made it stiffen more. “Good.” He bit his lip, tilting his head to peer down between them. “ _ Good _ . It’s- It’s brilliant.” He ran his hand down the line of him, pressing the way he liked, tracing the shape and feel of him as he did. “It’s brilliant. Thank you. I’ve been thinking- thinking about- wondering about- You’re sure it’s okay?”

“Yes- yes-“ Tristan rolled his hips forward to press more of himself into his palm and groaned, a deep, guttural sound that rumbled through his chest. “Your hand- it’s so- so-“ His tongue slicked over Aran’s lips, brushing the length of his own as he rocked against him, his grip on his hip tightening. “I’ve thought about this, too,” he whispered, hoarse and throaty, “I’ve thought about you, too, like this. When I’m alone, or in class-“ he licked Aran’s lips again, “- I think about you. I want to kiss you and- and touch you, and watch you.” He sighed when Aran squeezed him again, a little bit more. “Is it weird? That I like watching you?"

Aran shook his head. “I watch you, too,” he whispered. Breathless. “I want to- like to-“ It was difficult to speak. His mind was racing. His pulse was too loud. And he could feel him. Feel him everywhere. Smell him, taste him- He groaned helplessly around Tristan’s tongue, sucking it back into his mouth again as he rolled his palm over that bulge again and again until the fly of Tristan’s jeans began to dig into his skin. What was it like? Under the denim? What was he like? What did he want? What did he mean, they didn’t do what they were supposed to? Why would he  _ want _ to go eat Antivan food when they could do this and feel like this and be like  _ this _ ? “Can I touch more?” he whispered. 

Aran thought he heard Tristan’s breath hitch in his throat- a quiet staccato followed by the muscles of his back tensing under Aran’s palm. He swallowed, his eyes flicking from Aran’s eyes to his lips and back, dark and heavy lidded. “Okay,” he nodded, panting lightly. “Okay. Y-yes.” His tongue, pink and glistening, ran over his lips. “Can I touch you, too?” 

He shivered, watching the wet spot on Tristan’s lip. “A-aye,” he darted up to taste it. “Aye, you can.” He was- They were- He wanted- Aran closed his teeth over that lip and held as he tried to sort through the tumult of thoughts and images and wild flash fires in his mind, in his veins. “Switch,” he whispered. “So I can see?”

Tristan held on to Aran’s hip as he shifted underneath him. He took hold of his knee, pulling it up until Aran was straddling him. “Is this okay?” he asked, blinking up at him. 

He nodded, settling onto Tristan’s thighs. 

Beautiful. 

Weird thought. 

But he was- in the way of sculptures and paintings- lying on the old sofa. His skin so smooth and pale and paler from the cold, but flushed in spots, too- spilled raspberry juice and skinned knees. 

Aran bit his lip, trying to hold himself still, failing. The way Tristan’s hair looked around his head, wet strands clinging to his shoulder like liquid gold, and how he was watching him so intently, vested storms, the waiting in the midst of it before the thunder crashed again. He smoothed his palms over that bulge again; like a saddle horn, he grinned. Squeezed. Traced the zipped line of Tristan’s fly. Flicked his gaze up the milky expanse of him to meet his eyes. “Sure it’s okay?”

Tristan's head fell back on a sigh. His palms travelled up Aran's thighs slowly, smoothing over the curve of his backside. That firm line flexed under Aran's fingertips, tightened just a little bit more, if that was possible. “I like it when you do that." His hands followed the bend of Aran's body, fingers dancing up his back, thumbs curving around his waist. "You're so nice," he whispered, smiling. 

“ _ You’re _ so nice,” he laughed, nervous, but wanting it anyway. More. Tristan’s fingers on his skin. More. Tristan’s voice all quiet and low. More. He concentrated, unbuttoning and unzipping, glancing up to Tristan’s face with each move. His gaze on him, on his hands, sent a shiver up Aran’s spine. He wanted him to see everything, watch everything, and - at the same time - he wished that he was by himself alone where he could feel and touch and sniff without being observed. Because he wanted to- He folded the denim back to stare at the tent of Tristan’s boxers. 

Big, was all he could think. Not weirdly- just- not his own and- He brushed his fingers over the cloth and it twitched again. Alive. And warm. Hot. He caught his lip between his teeth. “You’re really hard-“ The words were a whisper. He couldn’t quite breathe. Like being drunk. Like falling. He pressed his hips down and back. Aching. He was aching inside and out. And Tristan’s hand on his arse wasn’t helping, not at all; he’d patted him there, grabbed him once or twice, but it wasn’t this… steady sensation of… “I want to take it out. I want- is that okay? Can I?”

Tristan's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers flexing on Aran's thigh. "Yes," he nodded, slowly, dabbing his lips with his tongue. "I- you- yes. It's okay."

Aran brushed his fingers over the cloth again. Heat. Firm. A spot of wet. Form. He licked his lips and peeled the cloth aside, unaware of the rock of his own hips as Tristan sprang free. Maker, not much, just the last resistance gone and then... He was  _ there _ . Aran swallowed. There, in front of him. Of course he’d seen other- He had brothers and it wasn’t like he’d never been in a locker room- but this was- This was Tris, letting him- He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to remember how to breathe. This was Tris and Tris was… hewn whalebone, nearly white flesh, untouched by sun, darkening like a bruise towards the full, slick head- “Pretty,” he whispered, unaware that he’d spoken. Gorgeous. And close. Really, really close. And there was a scent rising from him, filling Aran’s senses, something- incredible and- He swallowed again. He flexed his fingers along side of it, not quite touching, just to feel the heat dance between that  _ very pretty  _ piece and his skin- He exhaled unsteadily as a fresh bead of dew gleamed and - oh - he wanted that. He wanted that very, very much. The thought- the want- scared him and he focused on the heat again. The shape of him. The way it moved on its own, reacting to the flex of his fingers and his breath and Maker knew what else- “Okay.” 

Tristan's gaze was fixed on Aran's fingers, his chest rising and falling swiftly with his breaths. His eyes snapped to his when Aran spoke and he blinked, like he had just woken up. "O- okay," he echoed, biting his lip. His fingertips caressed Aran's spine as they moved down, brushing the waistband of his jeans. His touch light, tentative, then growing firmer as he took hold of his hips again. "You're pretty," he breathed as he rocked slowly against him. "Very pretty." His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, his eyes growing dark with- focus? Hunger? Something that made them gleam right before they fell to his fingers again. "Do you want to- what do you-" He paused, swallowing thickly. 

“Yes.” Aran nodded quickly, “Whatever you’re saying: yes.” Maker, he was just- He was so-

Tristan huffed a nervous laugh, his cheeks flushing. "These jeans are tight," he said, glancing up at him and away.

“Uh huh. Rain. Cold. Aye.” Was that his voice? That quiet thing coming from far away? He pulled his lip between his teeth, hypnotized by the magic of- Gods, it was like he was a snake charmer. He moved a finger closer and it shifted, flexed- “Okay,” he said again. “I’m- I think- I think you- You deserve some information.”

"What information?"

“It’s just… I’m…” he bit his lip harder, mumbling around it. “I’m super gay. Really, really gay. Wasn’t a hundred percent sure, yeah? Definitely. Definitely am. Very gay for you. ”

Tristan stared at him for a moment, then let out a small laugh, his flush darkening. "Oh. That's... good, right?" He laughed quietly again. "I'm gay, too. For you."

That laughter released the tension that had been building behind Aran’s eyes. Right. Focus. “Aye. Aye, you’re-“ He glanced up again. “Should I- You’re good? You seem- You seem really good. Are you good?” 

"I am. I'm good." His gaze travelled slowly down, where Aran's fingers hovered over him. He took in a slow breath, tracing Aran's waistband with his thumb. "What about you?" he whispered, his knuckles brushing his navel.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “I’m excellent.” He pressed his lips together, letting his fingers move that last tiny heat-soaked inch to touch his skin. Swallowed. “You like me, eh?” He bit at his own grin as it spread across his lips. Velvet under his fingers, soft and smooth and hot to the touch like boiled milk and- He shivered, tracing the line of him. “It’s okay? I- Can I- You feel- It’s really- aye-” He swallowed again, tonguing the roof of his mouth as he ran his fingers over it. Had he ever thought about how he  _ felt _ ? From the other side? No, not when the sensations on his cock had him panting and biting his pillow. He glanced up again, searching Tristan’s face as his smile widened. “Feels good? Seems like it. Should-“ He lifted his brows. “You want me to- ah- you know?”

Tristan hummed, his eyes falling closed as he twitched again under Aran's fingers, as his hips rolled up just a hair. "You can do anything you want. Whatever you want, I- I just-" His eyes fluttered open, dark, enlarged pupils drowning in the blue. "Can I touch you, too? Like… like this?"

That sound through his lips that seemed to touch him like fingertips. Soft and loose- Had he sounded quite like that before? Or was it just- Aran gulped, fumbling at his fly. “Sure, yeah, aye-“ Just that his ears felt like he’d dived for too long? Like he was listening to the world through a conch. Like he’d forgotten how to make his lungs breathe. He unzipped his fly and exhaled sharply- Close. Maker, he hadn’t thought about how damned close they’d be with him sitting like this and- His head began to swim, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. Had to touch him more- gods above and below - more- He curled his fingers around Tristan’s length and squeezed. “It’s- You’re so hard.” He sniffed, itching his ear against his shoulder. “It’s brilliant.”

Tristan thrust up, sliding through Aran's curled palm, his head falling back against the cushions. A bead of dew slicked from the tip when he thrust again and he let out a moan, low in his throat. "Maker,” he panted, breathless. "That's- oh, that's-" He looked up at him, lips curling in a smile. "That's so much better than doing it alone. So much better." He slid his fingers past the waistband of Aran's boxers, slowly peeling the fabric down. "You're hard, too," he whispered as he ran his fingertips down Aran's length.

Aran hissed through his nose at the contact, crossing his eyes. “Aye, usually-“ he swallowed again, laughing under his breath. “You weigh me down and everything acts up.” He stroked his thumb up the side of Tristan’s cock, watching it weep, and stroked it again. “Weird at this angle. Not-“ he glanced up, “not bad weird,” he added quickly. “Just- different.”

"It is. It's- I like it." He licked his lips, watching as he wrapped his palm around his shaft, squeezing gently. Pressure and the coarseness of his hands and the heat of his palm and- "I've been thinking about this," he murmured, brushing his thumb over his tip. "About you, about- what it would be like. It's better than I thought. Actually, I don't know what I thought." He smiled up at him, quick, then back down as he stroked him slowly. "You have really nice hands. Really, really nice. And when you do that, that- when you squeeze, and-" he hummed, rocking against him, "-it's good. Yes, very good. Do you-" he glanced up, "-do you like that?"

“Yeah,” he breathed sharply through his nose, stretching his jaw. Good?  _ Good _ ? It was an understatement but he couldn’t think of words other than, “Yeah- yes-“ and “Uh huh-“ as Tristan’s palm shuttled across his flesh. “More?“ he whispered, grinning, his gaze flickering between their hands moving, their cocks so close they could touch and that- that was insane- and Tristan’s drowning eyes and the feckin’ span of him, chest rising and falling with his breaths and the movement of his arm and- “You can-“ he bit his lip harder, “you can squeeze it tighter if you want.”

Tristan nodded, grinning back at him as he squeezed and stroked him a little harder, a little faster. His cheeks were flushed and so were his lips, the skin on his neck and chest warm and bright as Aran did the same.”Come here," he whispered, reaching up to cup his neck. "I want to kiss you."

“While…?“ he blinked hard, laughing. “Yeah, sure, that’s-“ The laugh transformed into a sigh in his throat as he allowed Tristan to draw him down. Fuck, the taste of him and the feel of him and- He balanced, panting, elbow to the cushion by Tristan’s cheek as he bowed over him. “S’good. Really good. Dead magic. Tris.” He kissed him hard, panting through his nose. “Tris- This is a really good thing.”

"It is- It really is-" Tristan sighed, licking Aran's lips, tasting him as his fist glided up and down his length in a smooth, steady rhythm. He threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging gently. "It's our thing," he whispered, nuzzling his nose. "Ours."

“Yeah,” he grinned, gasping as Tristan squeezed and stroked and- “Oh, f-“ he groaned, rocking into Tristan’s fist. “Boyfriend stuff?” he panted, trying to see straight.

"Yes- yes-" Tristan nodded sharply, kissing him hard. "Boyfriend stuff." He moaned against his lips, pressing his eyes shut. "It's so- I'm so-" A deep, guttural sound came from deep within him as he thrust faster, his shaft pulsing in Aran's hold before a burst of thick, warm liquid coated his fingers. 

Aran nipped at his lips, chuckling darkly, “I win.” 

Tristan blinked at him blearily, taking in a sharp breath. "Wh- what?"

“You’re brilliant,” he hummed, kissing him hard. “You’re brilliant. You did good. I win. You did great. Magic, mate.”

“You-“ Tristan sighed, pressing his forehead to his. “You’re brilliant. This is brilliant. I-“ He brushed his lips over his, his breath hot against his skin, washing over him like a warm bath. “I wasn’t aware it was a competition.” His fingers tightened around Aran’s cock, squeezing him as he stroked him again. “I’d have held out longer if I knew."

“Doesn’t- Ah!” He shuddered as Tristan did- oh - the best things and - ah - He put his head down and rocked into Tristan’s fist as it pumped and squeezed and - gods, it was so, so much better than- “Oh, fuck-“ he gasped, flattening his palm on the cushion, feeling Tristan soft and sticky in his grasp- “Oh, that’s- that’s really-“

“Yes,” Tristan whispered, lapping at his tongue. “I want to do it again. And again. I want to do it all the time. With you.” He bit Aran’s lip, grinning, stroking him more firmly. “I like doing boyfriend stuff with you."

“Maker, yes, fuck-“ he fumbled to grab hold of Tristan’s hip, punching the cushion as he shuddered through his finish, pleasure like a wave cresting over him. He collapsed onto Tristan with an embarrassing series of high-pitched grunts and crushed his face into his neck. He couldn’t uncurl his toes. He couldn’t move. Death. This was what death felt like. Oh, death was so good. He shuddered again, inexplicably, as Tristan’s fingers flexed around him. “Fff.”

“Good, right?” Tristan chuckled, then turned to kiss the side of his head. “Like an electric current. At first I thought I was melting, and then I was floating.” He let out a soft sigh, pressing his lips against Aran’s ear. “Next time, I’ll win,” he whispered, catching his earlobe between his teeth.

“Uh uh,” he swallowed, his throat raw, but sparks still threw down his spine at the pressure of Tristan’s damned teeth. “I-“ he smeared his hand up Tristan’s side with a weak chuckle. “I win.” 

Tristan groaned, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever, enjoy your win.” He bit his ear harder, growling playfully, “But I  _ will _ win. Mark my words.” His thumb was soft when it brushed over Aran’s tip, then he gently let go of him. He brought his hand up to his lips, flicking his tongue over his fingers. “That… doesn’t taste as weird as I thought,” he murmured, brows furrowed in concentration.

Aran stared at his tongue, at his thumb. Swallowed. Shivered. “The girls say it tastes like poison.” But it didn’t look like poison. It looked like honeysuckle dew and Tristan was so- so- He leaned up and licked Tristan’s lips, his fingers, his tongue. Salt. Brine. Sea. Tris. He hummed in the back of his nose, kissing Tristan around his fingers, “Nnn- I love you, you’re the fucking best.”

Tristan froze, blinking at him. “I-” He licked his lips, then ran his tongue over Aran’s. “I love you, too,” he whispered, looking up at him wide eyed. “You’re the- I love you.” He grinned, biting his lip, threading his fingers through Aran’s hair. “I love you. You love me.”

“Uh huh,” Aran licked Tristan’s teeth where they tugged at his lip. “Aye. You want to taste you?”

Tristan nodded, still smiling, his cheeks rosy and bright. “You love me.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, tracing his sticky fingertips across Tristan’s lips before he kissed him again. “Yeah. I do.”

Tristan hummed, kissing him deeply. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Different, but good.” He sighed, brushing his nose against Aran’s as he wrapped his arms around him. “Say it again."

“Say what?” he grinned, taking Tristan’s lip between his teeth to tug and suck. 

“That you love me,” he whispered with a soft moan. “Say it again.”

“You love me,” he nuzzled at his nose. 

Tristan rolled his eyes and let out a muffled groan. “Not that. The other way around.” He poked his sides with his finger. “Say it. Say it.”

Aran laughed, perching above him on his elbows, his fingers tangling into his hair, “Me love you.” He lifted a brow. “You love me and me love you.”

Tristan beamed, nuzzling his nose. “I do. You do.”

“Tris?”

He sighed, tilting his head up to kiss him. “Hm?”

Aran beamed back at him. “You’ve got spunk in your hair.” 


	13. Cobwebs and Muddy Water

## [Tristan]

“... Five, four, three, two, one. Okay. Here I come.” Tristan opened his eyes and turned around. He stood still for a moment, eyes peeled, ears ready to pick up the slightest sound. There were plenty of spots inside the maze for Aran to hide, and he was quick, with soundless feet. Tristan usually found him, though, sooner or later. He took a step forward, careful to keep the soles of his shoes from crunching too much on the gravel. The only sounds were the breeze blowing gently through the carefully trimmed bushes, the merry trill of songbirds, the occasional chatter that drifted from the house. A quick and sudden shuffling of feet to his right, followed by silence.

Tristan narrowed his eyes, crouching as he followed the source of the sound, trying to detect any movement. He had to watch his back, too, in case Aran decided to pounce on him from behind. He’d managed to do that, once. Maybe twice. Three, if he stretched it- but who was counting anyway? Tristan bit his lip to stop himself from huffing as he turned left at the end of the corridor, then right, then right again. He knew that maze like the back of his hand. If Aran thought he could hide from him-

A movement at the edges of his vision, the light catching on the golden highlights of Aran’s bouncing curls. Tristan dashed after him, not caring about staying silent anymore. He was close, he could feel it. He ran ahead and took a left where he had last seen Aran- only to find the corridor empty. He cursed under his breath, stalking ahead. How did he manage to move about so quickly?

Well, if he was fast, Tristan could definitely move just as fast as he did. He wasn’t the second best fencer under eighteen in the Marches for nothing. Soon, he would probably be first, after the autumn competitions. His coach had been training him to the ground for months. All that, combined with his polo and his show jumping training- yes. He was fast. Faster than Aran. He was. If only he could catch a glimpse of him through those thick bushes…

The sound of gravel retreating under Aran’s shoes caught his attention. It was closer this time- he was no doubt trying to beat him to the base. Without wasting a moment, Tristan turned around, rushing through the maze. He almost fell back when Aran dashed past him like lightning, laughing as he evaded him. 

“Too slow!”

Tristan growled under his breath, running after him. “I don’t fucking think so,” he said, pushing himself forward. He gritted his teeth when he saw their base coming into view- the small bench they usually sat on. There was no way he would let Aran win. After the recent wins he’d somehow managed, just the thought of his self-satisfied grin was enough to make Tristan want to chew his arm off. 

He caught Aran by the edge of his shirt just before he touched the bench, pulling him back. Aran fell on him with a gasp, losing his balance, and they both tumbled to the ground. 

“Cheating- cheater-” Aran grunted, trying to slither from his grasp, but Tristan rolled on top of him before he had a chance to. Sweat was running down his brow as he straddled him, holding his wrists above his head.

“Now who’s slow?” he grinned down at him, panting. 

“You!” Aran struggled beneath him. “You’re slow and you’re a cheater and you’re-“ He narrowed his eyes, “Enjoying this too much.”

“Am I?” Tristan’s grin got wider as he leaned down. “How can you tell?”

Aran bit his lip, flushing. “You know how.” He rolled his eyes, “I still won.”

“You wish. I caught you before you did. I won.” He brushed his nose over Aran’s. “I won, I won, I won. Say it.”

“I won’t say it, I won’t! You’ll have to make me!” Aran slanted a sideways grin up at him. “If you can do that without cheating, too. Cheat, cheat, cheat. That’s all you do. I’m going to tell your coaches.”

“Even if you say it, they won’t believe you, because I never do.” Tristan narrowed his eyes at him, pressing the tip of his nose against Aran’s. “I have a few ideas about how to make you. Want me to try them out?”

“I like your ideas,” Aran eyed him. “Most of the time. Try one. We’ll see if the others are reasonable.”

Tristan hummed, brushing his lips over Aran’s. “I can try one. Or two.” He sighed when they peeled apart under his own, as he tasted Aran’s breath on his tongue. He slid his hands off Aran’s wrists, threading his fingers through his. “How’s that for a start?” 

“Very nice,” Aran breathed, his smile soft. “I still won. But it’s nice.”

Tristan huffed, catching Aran’s bottom lip between his teeth. “No. You did not.” He slid his knee between Aran’s legs, slowly brushing the inside of his thigh. “You need to learn how to admit defeat. Now, say I won.” 

“No. If I lost, I’d say it, but I didn’t, so I won’t. I won. I won. Because I’m faster than you, and cleverer, and because you’re too busy mooning over me to stay focused,” Aran rambled, lip still caught. “You say  _ I _ won. And I’ll let you take me back to your room. For snacks.”

“You always say you won, even when you haven’t. And you’re not faster than me, or cleverer. And I’m not mooning over you- or at least, if I do, you do, too.” Tristan smirked as he let his lip go, his mouth gliding to Aran’s ear. He bit down on his earlobe just as his knee moved higher still. “I say we stay here until you tell the truth.”

“Fine,” Aran wheezed, shivering beneath him, his fingers flexing against Tristan’s. “Good. Aye, that’s good.”

“Yeah?” Tristan flicked his tongue over his ear, his knee brushing between Aran’s legs. He sighed when he felt the firm line through his jeans. “I knew I’d convince you one way or the other. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Aye-“ The word escaped his lips like a whine and he rolled his hips towards Tristan’s knee. “More.”

Tristan hummed his assent, pressing his knee more firmly against him. A wave of warmth rushed through him when he surged up and caught Aran’s lips in a kiss. “Changed my mind,” he whispered, running his tongue along Aran’s bottom lip. “Let’s go back to my room. It’s too hot here, I want to take my shirt off. And yours.”

Aran laughed, “Air conditioning, aye, far too- aye-“ He licked at Tristan’s tongue, squirming. “And shorts. Too hot for shorts.”

Aran without a shirt. And without shorts. A shiver ran down Tristan’s spine at the thought. Perhaps Aran was right. Perhaps he did spend most of his time mooning over him. “Mmhmm. Yeah. Sure. No shorts.” He pulled back to sit on his heels, extending a hand to Aran. “We could go to the kitchens first to get some snacks. For- you know.” He bit his lip. “After.”

“Right,” he beamed, clasping hands with Tristan so they could pull each other up to their feet. “Snacks. And maybe another war movie?” He lifted his brows hopefully. “Until Tilly gets in, anyway, aye?”

“Yeah,” Tristan grinned. He cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “I already have one downloaded and ready. And Nelly made blueberry biscuits; I’ll ask her to make some veg chips as well. It’s going to be great.” He sighed as he kissed him again, his fingers threading through the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Until Tilly-“

“Tris!”

Tristan froze with the sound of his sister’s voice. He edged back, blinking at Aran, who was blinking back at him. Tristan rolled away as if stung, untangling himself from him. What was Tilly doing there so early? She wasn’t supposed to come back until evening at least-

“Aran? Tris?”

“We’re here!” Tristan croaked, then cleared his throat. “We’re right here.” He pushed his hair off his face, smoothed his palms over his shirt. He didn’t dare glance at Aran as he walked ahead. His sister was standing underneath the arched entrance of the maze, her crisp white novice robes fluttering with the breeze around her feet. She beamed when she saw him emerge.

“Tris!” She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. She smelt of ginger and fresh baked cookies. She’d evidently already made a stop by the kitchens to greet Nelly. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

Tristan hugged her back tightly, then pulled back to look at her. “It’s good to see you, too. We didn’t expect you so early.”

“Well, yes, neither did I. But I finished my homework early and I called Addington to send a car. Aran!” Her cheeks flushed rosy and bright, and she let go of Tristan to fling herself at Aran. “Munchkin!”

“Giant!” Aran stumbled back as he caught her around the waist. He was still flushed, hair wild, eyes too wide. “Hey- Hi!” He tugged at her hair, watching the curl bounce. “It’s- aye. Look at you! Exams went well, I take it?” he grinned, poking at the new bar on her sleeve. “How’s what's-his-name, with the nose?”

“Oh, him,” Tilly made a bored wave with her hand. “He’s being transferred to Ansburg next month. Besides, I learned he’s been talking with Romero all the while he’s been talking to me. She thought he was going to ask her out, just like I did! He’s such a player. And he does have a big nose, now that I think about it. I don’t know what I saw in him.”

“Why haven’t I heard of this before?” Tristan asked, crossing his arms before his chest. “You told Aran and not me?" 

“That’s because Aran bothers to pick up his phone,” Tilly replied, frowning at him. “And he cares enough to text me and check how I am.”

“Hey! I text you, too!”

“Only when you forget,” she muttered, pursing her lips. 

Tristan huffed and turned on his heel, walking towards the house. “I’m going back inside. It’s too hot here.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea! I’m dying for some cold lemonade.” Tilly ran up to him, threading her arm through his. “So! How’s school? What have you two been up to?” 

Tristan opened his mouth to reply, but instantly snapped it shut. What had Aran and Tilly been talking about all this while? How much did she know? Had he told her about- about them? He sneaked a glance at Aran over his shoulder. “Ah... not much?”

Aran rolled his eyes at him, shaking his head as he shuffled his hand through his hair. “Just summer stuff,” he wrinkled his nose, throwing himself into cartwheels as soon as they reached the lawn. “We made a cooler out of the ocean.”

“Did you now?” Tilly chuckled, watching him. “Oh, I’m so jealous. I haven’t been to the beach in ages. Do you think the heat will keep until tomorrow? We could go for a swim, the three of us.”

Tristan bit his lip. The thought of seeing Aran in his swim shorts and Tilly being  _ right there _ did not sound particularly pleasant. “Ah… we’ll see. I might have training tomorrow." 

“Can’t you skip it for a day? I don’t come out of the Circle every day.”

“Yes, I’m well aware. Maybe you and Aran could go and I’ll catch up with you later.” But what if Aran decided to tell her? Would he do that? Behind his back? Apprehension settled thick in his stomach. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise, leaving those two alone. He shook his head, changing the subject. “How were your exams?”

“Great, thank you. I’ve learnt some very cool ice runes. Aran, did you get the pictures I sent you of them?" 

“I take it that means you didn’t read the essay I found on the similarities between Marchtongue glyphs about winter and Dwarven ice runes.”

“Oh!” Tilly clapped her hand over her mouth. “Now I remember! You sent me that email and I told myself I’d read it after the exams were over, but it slipped my mind completely. I’ll read it as soon as I get back, I promise!” She let go of Tristan and caught up with Aran, throwing her arm over his shoulders. “I’m sure it’ll be fascinating. I’ll read it, and then I’ll send you my essay on Nevarran spirit runes. How does that sound?”

Aran smiled contentedly, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Sure, aye, sure you will. I’ll believe it when I see it, right?” He grunted, hefting her up from the ground an inch. “Ha! I  _ am  _ getting stronger.” 

Tilly squealed, holding on to him. “You are! Put me down, put me down!” Her laughter rang clear through the empty garden. “My brother’s been training you well, has he?”

Tristan cleared his throat and looked away, hoping that his blush wasn’t noticeable. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“Sure. He gives me lots of opportunities to beat him in swimming races,” Aran beamed brightly, setting her back to the ground.

“You do not beat me,” Tristan grumbled. “It was just once.  _ Once.  _ I’ve beaten you every other time.”

“Beg to differ.” Aran looked to Tilly, sighing dramatically, “As you can see, we’re still working on your brother’s total detachment from reality. I fear it may take years.”

“If someone’s detached from reality, that would be you,” Tristan spat, narrowing his eyes. His pulse thrummed in his throat as annoyance sparked hot and bright within him. “Tilly knows well that the times you’ve beaten me are precious few. That hasn’t changed, and will not change, because I’m stronger than you and you know it. Just admit it so we can get on with our bloody day.”

“Nope.” Aran bared his teeth, “It’s dangerous to live in delusions. You might stumble off a cliff. Or try to mate with a druffalo.”

Tristan glared at him, hunching his shoulders. “I might as well mate with a druffalo,” he snarled, his hands curling into fists, “its company would be far better than yours. At least druffalos don’t talk so bloody much, and they don’t cheat!”

“I’m not a feckin’ cheater,” Aran snapped back at him. “Or a liar. You take it bloody back.”

“I’m taking fuck all back,” Tristan growled, trembling with anger. A liar?  _ He  _ was a liar? He took a threatening step towards him. “You call me a cheater one more time-”

“Alright, alright, time out!” Tilly said, placing herself between them. “This heat is driving you both mad. You should see yourselves, hissing and snarling like alley cats. Go toss some cold water over your heads, that should help.”

Aran’s eyes narrowed. “I can beat you to the pond.” He kicked off his shoes. “With a witness.” 

“You bloody wish you could,” Tristan hissed, kicking off his own shoes before taking off at a run. 

“Hey!” Tilly shouted behind them. “That’s not what I meant!”

Tristan paid no heed as he ran, as fast as his legs could carry him. 

“Cheater!” He could hear Aran running after him and got a face full of Aran’s shirt - sticky with sweat as Aran caught up. “Can’t win a fair fight to save your life!”

“Fuck you!” Tristan snarled, tossing his shirt right back at him. “You cheat every way to Sunday and I’m the one that can’t win a fair fight?” He was panting and his skin felt too hot, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. Aran was still a couple steps behind him, and that was where Tristan intended to keep him. “Just give up already!”

“Never!” Aran swatted at him as he caught up again, “You give up!”

Tristan caught his arm, dragging him back. “You’re not winning today,” he snarled, panting. The pond was just within view; a few more steps and he’d reach it. “You might as well forget it!”

Aran yelled, pushing off and diving through the reeds straight into the shallows an inch ahead of him. He churned up the mud and pebbles, flattening the cattails beneath him, but when he lifted his face, he was grinning decadently, panting hard. “Piss. Off. You. Wanker. I. Win.” He spat out a mouthful of grit. “Eat it.”

Tristan’s vision flashed red. He burst forward with a growl, catching Aran by the waist and tossing him hard into the mud. “You didn’t win,” he grunted, falling on top of him. “You cheated! Again!”

“ _You_ cheated!” he shoved him into the water, still breathless from the run. “You stole a head start!”

“You threw your shirt at me!” 

“So did you!”

“You did so first!” Tristan spat out bitter, muddy water, brushed grit from his eyes. “And diving in the shallows doesn’t count!” He swung at him, missing him only by a hair when Aran edged back.

“You stole a head start and I still beat you!” Aran crowed, splashing water at him as he kicked off, backstroking into the pond. “I am the fucking best!”

“You are the bloody worst.” Tristan swam after him, catching him by the ankle to drag him back. “Why the fuck are you doing this?” he hissed, dropping his voice.

“Doing what?” He scrubbed water from his eyes, twisting to try to get out of Tristan’s hold. “Winning? Being your ‘friend’, eh? Nothing feckin’ special, aye?”

Tristan blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “So that’s what’s gotten up your arse? That I don’t want Tilly to know that we’re- just stop squirming, will you?” Tristan huffed as he tightened his grip, pulling him closer. “If you keep acting like that, she will know soon enough. Is that what you want?”

“Aye, it is. You know that. You- said she was coming  _ tonight _ !” he hissed. “I thought I had time to- to-” He growled.

“That’s what I thought! What do you want me to do? It’s not my fault she came back early.” He sneaked a glance over his shoulder. Tilly still hadn’t reached the pond. “Time for what?” he asked, turning back to Aran.

“I don’t know,” Aran groused, flushing. “Talk sense into you. Or wank it into you. One way or the other. Maybe both.”

Tristan gaped at him, heat travelling up his cheeks. “Talk sense into- what? You’re joking, right?” He frowned, catching him by the arm to pull him close. “You need some sense talked into  _ you _ . We both agreed we wouldn’t tell anyone. What’s changed?”

“Tilly isn’t ‘anyone’. I don’t like-” He gritted his teeth. “That was before, anyway. Ages ago. This is good, isn’t it?” he asked, hushed. “Isn’t it?”

Tristan huffed, running his fingers through his hair. “It is. It is good. But if we want it to stay good, we can’t tell. Not even Tilly. Why is it so hard to understand?” He looked back, past the edge of the pond. They probably had a minute or so before Tilly showed up. He pushed Aran towards the banks, hiding both of them behind a thick tuft of tall reeds. 

“Because I’m happy and I like you and I don’t want to go a fucking weekend without holding your hand or kissing you and I don’t see why I should have to when it’s Tilly and she’s practically you, only nicer and slightly less nice to look at.”

“I’m nice to you, too. Nicer than Tilly.” Tristan smirked, leaning down for a quick kiss. “I want to hold your hand and kiss you, too, but we need to be careful. At least for now.”

“It’s bloody stupid is what it is,” Aran pouted up at him. “I don’t like it. It feels like lying. I don’t- fuck!” He yelped, swatting at Tristan’s shoulder and then caterwauling as the little spider leapt onto his hand in the process. “Ahhhh! Fuck, kill it, kill it!” he slapped his hand against the water. 

“Wait, wait- just hold still!” Tristan caught the spider in the air as it leapt away from the water, just inches away from Aran’s head. He held it firmly, grinning. “Well, well. Look what I have here.”

Aran shuddered, backing away from him. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare put that thing anywhere near me. Agh, Maker, it was on you.” He gagged, scrubbing his hands over himself as he fled. “Feckin’ horrifying.”

Tristan stared after him, still holding the spider. “What, you’re never going to touch me again, now? Because of a tiny spider?”

“That’s nae tiny; that’s feckin’ huge! That’s- ugh- all the legs,” he pressed his fist to his lips, shivering. “You need three showers. Maybe five.”

“You’re right about that.” Tristan glanced at his drenched and muddy clothes, scrunching his nose. “We both need a shower.” He waded out of the water, coming closer to him. “I think I’m going to adopt this spider, actually,” he said, grinning wickedly. “It’s adorable. I like the way it’s crawling on my palm right now.”

“You’re never touching me again,” Aran hissed, green to his gills, warding him off with a snatched reed. “You’re a monster.”

“Am I? Really?” Tristan tossed the spider aside, then lunged at him. “You’re sure you don’t want me touching you?” he said as he grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer.

“Spider hands! Spider hands!” Aran screeched, slapping at his shoulders. “Forever unclean!”

Tristan chuckled, swatting his hand away. “Now you’ve got spider wrist!” He grabbed him by the waist, drawing him flush against him. “And now you’ve got spiders up your back. How do they feel?”

“Gross! Gross! Feckin’- ew- spider hairs all over you!” Aran squeezed his face up, wiggling in his hold. “Disgusting! Dis-” He shivered, catching his lip between his teeth. “Tris-”

Tristan let go of his wrist, still laughing. He flattened his palm on the small of Aran’s back, his other hand curling around his hipbone as they pressed closer. “Disgusting, am I?”

“Kiss me,” Aran whispered. “Kiss me, you gross, spider-person.”

Tristan grinned as he leaned down, catching Aran’s bottom lip between his own. He sighed, sliding his tongue in Aran’s mouth, lapping past the lingering bitterness of the pond water to uncover the sweet taste of him. “If I’m a gross spider-person, then so are you,” he whispered, his palm smoothing up Aran’s back.

Aran sighed, rocking against him, cold where his shorts touched Tristan’s skin, but warming under his hands in the sun. “Tris,” he breathed, “I want-”

"So," Tilly panted behind them, "who won?"

Tristan backed away, his heart beating in his throat. Reckless, they'd been too reckless. They knew Tilly was going to show up any moment- but where was she?

His pulse somewhat returned to its normal rhythm when he saw her emerging from behind a tall bush. Perhaps she hadn't seen them after all.

"Uh…" he started, glancing at Aran. What had she asked, again?

“Spider,” Aran croaked, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Spider won. Feckin’ creepy.” He stuck his tongue out. “Nasty little fuckers.”

"A spider?" Tilly shot them a puzzled look. "Well, you both need a shower now. You're covered in mud. You should wash it away with the hose first before you drag it in the house. Nelly will kill you if Addington doesn't see you first."

“Addington-” Aran ducked his head, laughing suddenly. “The wizard.” 

Tristan stared at him, then let out a slow chuckle. "He'll put a spell on you," he said, widening his eyes dramatically. "He'll curse you!"

"Addington?" Tilly asked, perplexed. "What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you know?" Tristan bit his lip, his shoulders trembling with laughter. "He's a wizard!"

“There’s these creepy bloody halls under your house,” Aran blinked the water out of his eyes. “With armor and swords and runes and shite. And we found a book- what, years ago? That we thought was a spell book or sommat.”

"A spell book? Runes?" Tilly blinked. "You went down to the catacombs? Why didn't you tell me? I always wanted to go down there!"

"It was ages ago, Till," Tristan said, walking towards the house. "It was just after you'd left for the Circle."

"Yes, but-" Tilly started after him. "What was it like? What else did you find? Were there any ghosts?"

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Aran muttered.

"It was… fine. Dusty. Dark." Tristan frowned when he remembered that oath stone and the sword they'd found. The way they glowed when he and Aran had spoken… those words. A chill ran up his spine. "It really wasn't that impressive. There weren't any ghosts."

“Because there’s no such thing.”

"But you said you found armor! And swords! And- and runes!" Tilly's eyes flashed with excitement. "We have to go down there again. When are we going down there again? Oh, I know! We should go tonight! After everyone goes to bed!"

"No," Tristan said quickly. "Absolutely not. We're not going."

Aran grinned sharply. “Snacks. Need snacks this time. I’ll hold the torch. You two deal with the spiders.”

“Yes!” Tilly exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“No!” Tristan glared at both of them over his shoulder. “I’m not going. If you two want to go, you’re more than welcome.”

“But why?” Tilly protested. “It will be fun! Terrible T’s going on an adventure!”

“Aye,” Aran tilted his head. “Why?”

Tristan pressed his lips in a line, turning to look ahead of him. He knew Aran would want to go back to the oath stone. And if he told Tilly about it, she wouldn’t leave it alone until she deciphered every single rune and memorised every name in that book. Just the thought of going down there again filled him with unease. What if the stone started glowing again? Or the sword got warm as soon as they got close? What if they really got cursed that time or- or- “I just don’t think it’s wise,” he grumbled. “It’s not a game.”

“Sure, no, not a game,” Aran agreed. “But wicked brilliant. Yeah? And maybe Tilly will be able to tell what the Void happened with the weirdness last time.”

Tristan bit his lip down hard when he sensed Tilly perking up behind him. “Weirdness? What weirdness?”

“Nothing!” Tristan said sharply. He flinched inwardly, hastening his step. “There was no weirdness. Everything was normal. I told you, it wasn’t that impressive.”

“Are you mad?” Aran laughed. “Did you forget all the glowing scribbles?” 

Tristan spun on his heels, glaring at him. “Will you just _ \- stop- _ talking?” 

Tilly blinked at him. “Hey! What’s that all about?” She glanced at Tristan, then at Aran. “What glowing scribbles? What weirdness?”

“Why shouldn’t she know, right? It’s her house, too, aye? And she’ll know better than us, aye?” Aran wheedled, undeterred by his glare. 

“Know what? What would I know better than you?”

Tristan held Aran’s gaze for a long moment. He was fuming, his blood boiling just under his skin. He did  _ not  _ want to go down there. He did not want whatever had happened back then to happen again. Why was that so difficult for Aran to grasp? 

He let out a long exhale through his nose, his brows gathering in a frown. “Fine. You tell her. It’s not like I can stop you from saying anything anyway.” He turned around, resuming his walk. “But I’m  _ not  _ coming with you.”

Tilly huffed, walking after him. “Will someone just tell me what is going on?”

“Tris-“ Aran whinged. “You don’t have to. We can go and see what’s what, aye? You don’t think about it ever?”

“I-” He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “Of course I think about it. But- look.” He turned to Tilly, crossing his arms before his chest. “We found an oathstone. And a sword. And that spell book Aran mentioned? That book was  _ old _ . Centuries old. And it had- fuck, there were hundreds of names there. Thousands, perhaps. I think-  _ we  _ think that it was a catalogue of all the knights and vassals that had sworn fealty to our family over the years. And there was an oath there…” He slanted a sideways look at Aran. “Aran and I spoke it on that stone. With that sword. And they both started glowing…” He shivered at the memory, biting the inside of his lip. “So there you have it. That’s the weirdness.”

Tilly was staring at him, her mouth slightly agape. She shook her head when he finished, blinking. “An oathstone? An  _ oath-  _ and a sword? And they- were there runes on them? Were the runes glowing?”

Tristan nodded reluctantly.

“They were glowing after you spoke the oath?”

“During,” Tristan said. “They stopped glowing when we stopped. We didn’t- uh- we didn’t exactly finish it.” He scrunched his nose. “The sword was too hot.”

Tilly’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Too hot- and neither of you thought to say something about this?!” She huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “You found an oathstone. An actual oathstone in the catacombs- and you  _ used  _ it- and you never said anything?” She turned her glare at Aran. “I’d expect this from my brother but not from  _ you. _ ”

“Well. We were a bit bloody spooked at the time, aye?” Aran itched his nose. “And then… ah, well, I forgot, to be honest, for a little while there.” He shrugged, “In any case, we’re telling you now, right? Multiple torches. And I’ll swing home for my rune to trade catalogues. And my journal.” He grinned brightly. “Aye?”

Tilly’s frown disappeared instantly to be replaced by a grin wide enough to mirror Aran’s. “Okay!”

Tristan sighed and dragged his palm over his face, cursing his luck under his breath.


	14. Cobwebs and Oathstones

## [Tristan]

“Oh, wow!” Tilly exclaimed, turning her head to look around the catacombs like a curious bird. “This place is huge!”

“It is!” Aran replied. “There’s loads of stuff down here. Last time, Tris and I found this massive set of armour that belonged to a great uncle of yours- was it Trevor Trevelyan?”

“Trenton Trevelyan the Third,” Tristan grumbled, illuminating the corridor before them with the torch. 

“Aye, that’s the one! He had this huge sword, too, right, absolutely massive. Tris said he could wield it one handed, but Void knows how he did it because that thing was- Ah! What- Is that a spider?!” Aran spun in a circle, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck- get it off, get it off!” Tilly gasped and ran to his side, patting down his hair and his back, while Aran’s cries echoed deafeningly down the corridor.

Tristan sighed, wondering whether people would notice it if he locked them both in the catacombs and then fled.

“I don’t see a spider, munchkin,” Tilly said worriedly, biting her lip as she searched through Aran’s hair. “Maybe it was just your imagination.” 

“I hate them. I hate them.” Aran twisted to look back over his shoulder, aiming his light at himself. “So many feckin’ legs,” he shivered, tugging his hood up over his head and cinching it tight. He looked to Tristan, biting his lip, fingers flexing in that way they did at school or at parties right before he suggested they find somewhere to go that wasn’t people. Right before he reached for him and tucked his palm against Tristan’s and gave that quiet sigh that was the first of many as hand holding progressed to other things… Aran held his gaze in the dark and shoved his hands and his torch into the pouch of his sweatshirt. “It was a big sword,” he finished lamely.

Tristan swallowed thickly, looking away. He didn't like that he couldn't hold his hand, or kiss him. He didn't like hiding what they had from Tilly, of all people. But it was still so early. Tristan hadn't fully understood what was happening between them himself, and if he told Tilly, she would have questions. He wouldn't last a moment under her scrutiny. And she might tell Mother, or someone else and then... 

"Right," he said abruptly, marching ahead. "The room is not too far from here. We can go there first and check the sword after we're done." He would think about it all later. Now was not the time. 

"Oh, yes, we should!" Tilly said excitedly. "Swords are so fun. Remember when we went to the Ostwick History Museum with school, three years ago? All those sets of armour! All those swords! Those lances! They were so shiny. And I loved the engravings. Some of them were absolutely beautiful- they don't make them like that anymore. Well, they don't make them at all anymore, which is a pity if you ask me. Oh! Wouldn't it be fun if we had armour and swords made for the three of us? I bet we would all look smashing. The Terrible T's: Fourth Blight edition." She threaded her arm through Aran's, grinning.

“So long as it’s without the actual Blight.” Aran leaned into her, eyeing the webs they passed under with suspicion. “You should see the armor we found down here, too! When we found it, Tris said he’d wear it. You’re pretty tall. Might suit you better.”

“It looked heavy," Tristan said. “Even if both of you got in it, I don’t think you’d be able to lift it.”

“So _you’d_ be able to lift it and the both of us wouldn’t?” Tilly sniffed. “Someone has a big idea of themselves.”

“No,” Tristan rolled his eyes, “I just call things how I see them.” He quickened his step, walking well ahead of them. The sooner they reached the blighted room, the sooner they’d leave. He hoped. “We’re close. Aran, is your torch working?”

“Hm?” Aran was walking with his chin perched on Tilly’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around her. “No hands. Don’t know.” 

Tilly laughed, reaching into Aran’s sweatshirt pouch. “Here. I’ve got it.” She switched it on, illuminating the corridor before them. “You know, I learnt a spell last year that gives you light without using a torch. Some mages use it with a wand or a staff, but I can cast it without one! Although Mistress Anaan said it’s dangerous and that she would punish anyone who tried it. Oh, I wish I could show you! If only we were allowed to use magic outside the Circle. Think we’re deep enough into the earth now to not be detected? I’ve heard that when mages go into the Deep Roads, the magic detectors can’t sense them at all, so they can cast as many spells as they like. Regina, the new transfer from the Lake Callenhad Circle, was telling us that many mages from their Circle were sent to the Deep Roads in Orzammar to test out new spells that they didn’t want the government to know about. It was all very hush-hush, you understand. That is _if_ she was telling the truth, which I’m not entirely sure she was. She told Gianna that Bastien asked her out, and Gianna told me, because she knows I know Bastien, and we sit next to each other in my Arcane magic class. So I asked Bastien-"

"Don't forget to breathe, Til," Tristan said teasingly.

"Oh, shush you," his sister laughed. "Anyway- where was I?"

"What did Bastien say?" Aran asked, blinking up at her. 

"Oh, yes! So. Bastien said he only texted her once, and that was to ask her to bring him back a pouch of crystal grace powder that he had lent her. So I’m not really sure what to make of her. Maybe she lies about some things, but not others." She tapped her chin with her finger, then made a vague gesture in the air, shaking her head. "Anyway. Top secret expeditions into the Deep Roads sound very, _very_ interesting, if you ask me. I do hope they’re true. I do hope they send me there someday! I want to do all the research. All the spells! I might even come up with one that sends all the spiders running. I bet there’s loads of them in the Deep Roads. Then I’ll show you how to do it, Aran! Oh.” She paused, frowning. “It’s a pity you’re not a mage. We would have had so much fun together in the Circle. But that’s alright! When I go to the Deep Roads, I’ll take you with me. And I’ll keep you safe from all the spiders,” she grinned, pinching his chin.

“If you come up with a spell that scares spiders of all shapes and sizes, they’ll give you an award and a duchy,” Aran beamed at her. “I will. I’ll found a feckin’ kingdom and hand you the keys to it.” He nudged her with his shoulder, “Anyway, Miri’s there if you want a dose. She’s fun.”

"Oh, yes! Miranda's lovely. I see her from time to time, but she's usually busy. She's working really hard on her apprenticeship. Her blue robes suit her very nicely. I can't wait to get started on my own. Mistress Anaan said I might be able to start early if I pass all my exams with good marks next year. I'm thinking Arcane or Primal. Everyone says they're tough, but I think they're both fascinating. Oh! Is this the room?" She cast the light of her torch on the door that Tristan had stopped before. 

Tristan took a hesitant step forward, let his gaze glide over the engravings on the door's surface. "Yes. That's the one."

"Oooh." Tilly's eyes widened. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get in!"

Tristan reached for the doorknob, his heart thrumming in his chest. The door protested loudly as he pushed it open, raising a cloud of dust in its wake. "Okay," he said, standing aside. "On you go. Search to your heart's content." 

“You’re really not coming in?” Aran asked quietly. 

Tristan let out a slow exhale through his nose. "I am. In- in a minute." He watched as Tilly walked forward, swinging the light of the torch in a wide arc around the room, before stopping at the large stone in its center.

"Oh, my. Sweet Maker! Is that the stone? The oath stone? Quick, Aran, get your notebook out! I need to get a good look at those runes. We should take all of them down- but first, we must figure out what they mean. Some runes activate as soon as they're written in order. Wouldn't want to set something on fire before we've had a chance to study them. Although that would be fascinating in its own right. Do we have any water in case that happens…? Oh, well, we'll just need to be careful."

Tristan sighed, flexing and curling his hands at his sides. "I don't like this. I don't like it one bit. I told you we shouldn't have come down here."

“It’s okay,” Aran met his eyes. He shifted his backpack to his side and brushed his fingers down Tristan’s forearm behind the bulk of it. “We won’t do anything to start it up again. Just figure out what it actually is. You’ll feel better knowing, aye?”

"I don't know," Tristan mumbled, the knot in his stomach tightening. He caught Aran's pinky with his own, squeezing lightly. "Some things are better left on their own."

“But you don’t know what those do until you see what they are, eh? What if-“ Aran lifted his brows, squeezing back. “What if your great-grandad had to do something on this thing to be able to wear that armor or heft that sword? Even if you never want to do it, wouldn’t it be cool to know?”

Tristan nodded reluctantly, worrying his lip. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. Let's- let's just get this over with. This place is very… dusty." He scrunched his nose, looking away. 

“Aye, it is. Just some notes. And then movies.” His eyes gleamed in the torchlight, the yellow making his soft blue eyes like a summer sky filled with sun. “If you want.”

Tristan swallowed thickly. Aran’s gaze on him and his fingers that threaded discreetly through his sent a rush of warmth through him. “I do,” he whispered. “You know I do. I-”

“Aran! Tris! Come, come over here! I think I know what most of these runes mean. There’s so many of them, oh, dear. Our ancestors worked really hard on this thing. Or whoever made it for them, anyway. I haven’t seen one quite like this before. And you said there was a sword, too? And a book?”

“Yes,” Tristan said, untangling his fingers from Aran’s, “there’s a sword. But I’m not touching it. And neither are you,” he glanced sharply at Aran.

“I brought gloves,” Aran smiled hopefully.

Tristan huffed and walked away from him, coming to stand over Tilly. “Right. What did you find?”

Tilly looked up at him, then back at the stone. “Okay. So. There’s a few elemental runes here: water, fire, air, earth. Most of them are at the base of the inscription, which is the norm in old stones like this one, especially in the Marches. Leftovers from the Planasene and their rituals, you see. But! This is what’s most interesting.” She cast light on a set of weird squiggles and shapes towards the top of the stone. “These runes are not Planasene at all. The strokes are all wrong. They don’t really look dwarven, either. Some of them remind me of Tevene runes, which could mean that they’re just simplified versions of ancient elvhen runes. Which is very cool because elvhen runes are absolutely fascinating- and! Look at this.” Her fingers trailed softly over them. “This is the rune for intention. This one is for love, and this one for friendship and honesty, which are somewhat expected in oathstones. But this.” She tapped her finger on the rune that lay at the center of the inscription. “This one is for unity. And that is very baffling to me. I’m not sure what the others underneath it mean, I’ve never seen them before, but I know that a rune like this is not common in oathstones, at least not the ones we’ve studied in class.” She bit her lip, frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t know what our ancestors were doing with this stone, but I believe it went beyond simply making their vassals swear loyalty.”

A ball of apprehension settled in Tristan’s stomach. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling beads of cold sweat forming at the base of his spine. “Beyond? What do you mean ‘beyond’? What did they do with them?”

Tilly shook her head. “I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it’s strong. And… quite binding, one would assume. In what way, I hardly know, but unity isn’t something that’s thrown around lightly. It’s quite loaded as a notion, actually, and entirely forbidden in some schools of magic. I should think, once the oath is in place, there’s no getting out of it. Neither the one pledging themselves, nor the person accepting it.”

Tristan slanted a sideways glance at Aran. His palms felt cold and clammy.

“I mean,” Aran wrinkled his nose, thinking. “That’s not- I mean, everything can get undone, right? So- Right. So what’s the point of it, then, eh? Aren’t all oaths supposed to be binding?”

“Yes, but there are bindings, and then there are _bindings_.” Tilly sniffed, turning back to the stone. “Most oaths of loyalty go one way, from the vassal to their lord. This looks like it goes both ways, perhaps not with the same intensity, but there’s definitely some back and forth going on here. And in most cases, the lords could dismiss their knights and release them, if they so chose. I don’t know if there’s another stone for undoings, but this one doesn’t look like it would allow such a thing.”

“So…” Tristan swallowed, wiping his palms on his trousers. “If- if someone pledges themselves on this stone, if they speak the oath… that’s it? They’re bound for life?”

“Well… yes. I think so. It’s… quite sinister.” She narrowed her eyes, knuckling her chin in thought. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Try not to piss yourself, Tris. It’s not like we finished it or anything,” Aran crossed his arms, sitting back on the desk. “It’s fine.”

Tristan turned around to glare at him. “That’s all you have to say about this? Seriously. Tilly just said that it’s more binding than actual bindings, and all you have to say is that we didn’t finish it? Who bloody cares whether we did or didn’t? This thing might have worked whether we finished it or not!”

“Actually,” Tilly started, “that’s not exactly how it-”

“And it can’t be undone either! Do you even understand what this means?” Tristan crossed his arms before his chest, mirroring Aran’s stance.

“Would you let her bloody talk, you moose?” Aran squinted. “When did you become an expert in the arcane, Tris? Hold your feckin’ wheesht.”

“Oh, so I’m not an expert but you are?”

“Okay!” Tilly stood up and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s all calm down, shall we? There’s no reason to get worked up. Not yet, at least. Ah-ah! Still talking,” she said, when Tristan opened his mouth to speak. He snapped it shut again with an annoyed grunt. “Right. So. How far _exactly_ in the ritual did you get? And may I see the book and the sword, please?”

“Aran can show them to you,” Tristan spat, walking away from them to lean against the far wall. As far away from that bloody stone as possible. “He’s got _gloves._ ”

“Oh, bite me,” Aran huffed. But he did pull out the thick leather barn gloves from his backpack before he drew the sword out for Tilly to see. “There’s runes on it; and more that show up when it glowed and heated up. I should have written them down when I saw them, but I wasn’t thinking about much at the time. Other than ‘hot’, anyway.” 

“Hmmm.” Tilly studied the sword carefully, leaning over it. “It’s alright if you touch it, by the way. It’s not cursed. Not that I can tell.” She frowned thoughtfully, tracing the runes with her finger. “Some of these runes mirror the ones on the stone, but not all. Some are very different. I think… there’s a few that are for protection. It’s almost… like a barrier of sorts, but a rather thin one. Perhaps it works to dampen some of the magic from the stone? But they both seem carved from the same hand, so I would think they’re quite in tune… Oh, I’m sure I’ve seen some of those markings somewhere, but I can’t remember where. Hmm. Perhaps it would make more sense if I saw the runes that show when it is activated. Although we should definitely not tamper with them any further until we know exactly what they do. This is powerful magic, and old. Very old. And it raises a lot of questions. Why on earth does our family have something like this? Do other families have stones and swords like these, too? And does Mother know about it? I don’t think grandfather would have told her about it, if he knew. Maybe Uncle Vestrit… Hmm. Maybe not.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Let’s have a look at this book, then.”

Aran hopped up on the desk, nudging the tome open and turning the fragile pages. “Here’s where we found the oath. Right. And- see- there’s Marchtongue and Common and these are dwarven, right? And this- you’re right, it looks like Tevene, but the syntax is all wrong.”

“Yes, it’s an odd assortment if I’ve seen any. If anything, our ancestors were quite ingenious when it came to the magic they used. I wonder how this was kept from the Chantry.” She nibbled on her lip as she flipped through the pages. “The stone and the sword are much older than the book. I’m not sure about the oath. The structure is similar to early Marcher oaths… But, I’ll admit, I haven’t researched oaths and pledges all that much. I’m sure the Circle library has books on the subject. I might be able to look up some of the runes I didn’t recognise. Although-” she glanced at the stone over her shoulder. “I think… I’ll need to be careful. They don't exactly allow novices to read those books.” She carefully closed the book and set it back in its place. “You two also need to be careful. I wouldn’t recommend trying this again, even if we do find out what exactly it was used for. I guess it’s fortunate that you stopped before it was finished. Maker knows what could have happened if you-” She turned abruptly, squinting at Tristan. “Did you feel anything after it was done? Or you, Aran?”

“I- well-” Tristan stammered. “It was… very hot, as Aran said. And I did feel a little light-headed. Oh, and I was hungry, too. Very hungry.”

“I’m still not sure that had anything to do with the sword,” Aran muttered. “I nearly pissed myself; pretty sure that wasn’t a magic side-effect, either.” 

“Well… hunger is to be expected after rituals of this sort. Sometimes. A lot of energy is consumed during the process.” She glanced at Tristan, then back at Aran. “Did you… feel any different? Towards each other?”

Tristan blinked. “Ah- no. Not at all. Why? How- what do you mean ‘different’?”

“I don’t know- did you feel anything changing? Anything at all?”

“Changing like what?” Aran itched the side of his nose. “No. I mean- no.” He crossed his arms, “Nope. No. Because we didn’t even finish any of it. And it’s not a real- _you_ said, it wouldn’t have done anything if we didn’t finish it.”

“No, I didn’t say that. It wouldn’t have taken full effect unless you finished it, yes. But the runes were still activated, and unless you deactivated them properly, which I’m sure you didn’t, they could still have some underlying effects, albeit small. That’s why I’m asking. Did anything change?”

Tristan’s hands curled and flexed at his sides. His throat was suddenly very dry. “Uh… no. I- no. I don’t- I don’t think so. I believe I would have known if- right. So, no. Nothing changed.” He glanced at Aran.

“ _No_ , fuck’s sake,” Aran rolled his eyes. “I mean, I don’t know. It was ages ago. Nothing I remember. Right?” 

“Okay.” Tilly let out a breath. “Okay! Good. So. No harm done.” She smiled at both of them, although it seemed just a touch forced. “Let’s copy some of those runes, Aran. Oh, and make sure not to write them down in order. We don’t know how they may react. And after this, we can go check out that armour! Yes?”

As soon as his bedroom door was firmly closed for the night, Tristan let out a heavy sigh. 

“Just so you know,” he grumbled, walking back to his bed where Aran was currently sprawled, “I still don’t like this. Not one bit.”

“You wanted me to stay in the guest room?” Aran squinted at him. “It’s so lonely there.”

“I’m not talking about the guest room.” He sat down at the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about the ritual.”

“Still?” Aran set his journal down, leaning up on his elbows. “Years ago, mate. If something weird was like to happen, it would have by now.”

“I know it was years ago, but Tilly said this is old magic. Powerful. What if- what if it takes years to show? What if it’s already changed us and we haven’t even realised?”

“Changed us how?” He shook his head, “Did you sprout a tail?” He grinned slyly, “Should I check?”

Tristan huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. “No, there are no tails. Unless I sprouted one within the last five minutes.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking away. “Do you think… do you think that what we feel… for each other… could be because of that ritual?” He bit his lip. “Perhaps part of it?”

“You think…” He heard the journal land on the nightstand with a thud and then Aran’s head dropped to his knee, blue eyes peering up at him curiously. “You _really_ think that your ancestors had a glowy magic sword made so people would want to rub against them?”

Tristan snorted, patting him on the head. “You’re an idiot.” He lifted him and tossed him on the bed, then rolled on top of him, perching his chin on his chest. “I mean it, Aran. What if the stone and the sword are messing with our minds somehow?”

“You’re right!” Aran exclaimed, wide-eyed. “I’ve been _thinking_ something was messed up with your mind!” he wiggled his eyebrows, laughing. “Now we know why! You didn’t happen to go down and touch the glowing things before we went, did you? Maybe you were born there!”

“Ugh.” Tristan huffed. “There’s no talking with you. You just turn everything into a joke.”

“Hey. Okay, right, you’re serious? Do you _feel_ like something’s messing with your head?”

“No. I don’t. I-” He bit his lip, glancing at the window. “I’d- I’d _thought_ about kissing you before the catacombs. Ages ago. I know the ritual didn’t mess with my head- at least I don’t think so.” He turned his gaze back to Aran, hoping that his blush wasn’t too noticeable. “What about you?”

“You thought what?” Aran pushed himself up on his elbows, peering up at him with wide eyes, “You thought- Really? You _bastard_. You made me think it was all in my head.”

“What? When did I do that?”

“When I was hemming and hawing and thinking I was going to- And you’d already thought of kissing me all that time before?” Aran wrinkled his nose. “You owe me. I lost sleep.”

Tristan squinted at him. “When were you hemming and hawing and thinking- you never told me about all that. All I remember you telling me is that you liked kissing me because I was fit. _After_ I’d kissed you first.”

“Uh… no. I kissed you first.” 

“What? _I_ kissed you first.”

“No! I was sitting on the gazebo, thinking about kissing you, and then Josie came and kissed me. And then Tilly got mad at me for kissing Josie. And then you said I could try on you and then I did.” Aran kissed him, “There, did it again.”

Tristan grinned, shaking his head. “No, I asked to try it on you and you said yes. And then I sat down next to you and I kissed you.” He kissed him back, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “And then I kissed you again, and I kissed you again.”

“I’m pretty sure I remember it right,” Aran mumbled, tugging at the back of his shirt as he held onto him. “And then you were all- yeah, okay- and you accused me of wanting to make out with a statue and then I had to practically beat you to get you to understand that I liked you. Aye, I remember it all very clearly.” He hooked his legs around Tristan’s, slipping a hand up under his shirt. “You’re welcome.”

“I remember,” Tristan hummed, lifting the hem of Aran’s shirt, “you letting me believe that you wanted to make out with one of my friends because you didn’t want to tell me you liked me. If I hadn’t asked you a thousand times, we would still be ‘practising’ for Hazren.”

“Hazren,” Aran shivered as Tristan touched his belly, “has great calves and doesn’t throw me in puddles.” He arched towards Tristan’s touch, sighing. “I really like you.”

“I like you, too,” Tristan whispered, gliding his tongue down Aran’s throat, shivers running down his spine when he tasted his skin- that subtle sweetness, the salt of his sweat. “I really, really do- but, what if-” He blinked, taking in a sharp breath. “What if it’s the ritual making us feel like that? What if- what if it just kicked in all of a sudden, or-” He frowned. “I don’t know. This is all very confusing. Am I making any sense?” 

“Uh huh,” Aran hummed, wedging his knee up between Tristan’s legs. “I mean, no, but yes.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, running his fingers up Tristan’s back. “What was the question?”

“I don’t know- I just-” Tristan dropped his head on Aran’s shoulder, biting back a sigh when Aran’s knee shifted higher, pressing- there- “I like you, and- I want you, and it’s _us_. Just us." He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it by the side of the bed. "I don’t want some stupid ritual to get in the way.”

“No ritual. No ritual, just us,” Aran groaned, taking full advantage of the lack of shirt, palms warm against his spine and shoulders. “Check. Aye. Just us.”

The room was perfectly quiet, and so was the hall beyond it, and if anyone passed by their door would definitely hear them. “Quiet,” he whispered, kissing Aran hard to muffle any more sounds, “we need to be quiet.”

“Movie,” Aran nibbled at his lip. “I can’t be quiet. It’s really good,” he wrinkled his nose, peering up at Tristan. “Like- really, really.”

Tristan smiled, kissing him hard one last time before pushing himself up and off the bed. He hopped to his desk, turning on his laptop and starting the movie he’d chosen earlier that day. Aran’s eyes followed him eagerly as he flopped back down on the bed beside him. “Right,” he grinned, “where were we?"

Aran laughed, rolling on top of him to nip at his shoulder. “You were kissing me,” he dragged his nose up the side of Tristan’s neck, breath warm against his skin. “And you were saying how much you like me and for how long. And how your ancestors really liked magicking people into stiff tadgers.”

Tristan cackled, the sound muffled by Aran's lips as he pulled him closer. "So how long have _you_ liked me? You never said."

“Liked you or _liked_ you?” Aran panted against his lips, kissing him eagerly. “Fuck, you feel good. I missed you. I missed you today.”

"I missed you, too." He sighed as he ran his palms down Aran's back. "So- how long- have you been thinking about me?" He leaned back to look up into his eyes. "Was it before the ritual or after?" 

“Spring- since spring,” he groaned. “More kissing, less talking.”

"Spring?" Tristan breathed before Aran's lips closed over his again. He needed to talk about that damned ritual, but this- he needed more of this, too. Words were increasingly hard to come by as they writhed and kissed and touched, and all thoughts were sliding out of his grasp. He wanted to let go completely and focus just on this, but the uncomfortable ball of unease in his stomach wouldn't go away. He took a deep breath when Aran's lips left his own to glide down his neck. "So-" he started, blinking to bring some clarity back into his mind, "so you only started thinking about me this spring? After the ritual? You never thought about me before?"

The pain was sharp and quick- teeth digging into his neck, heat pouring into his core to tighten and thicken. Aran narrowed his eyes on him, “I’m thinking about you now.” He rolled his hips- hard against Tristan’s thigh. “It’s not the bloody ritual, Tris. It’s you. You’re so fucking annoying.” He raked his teeth across Tristan’s shoulder. “It didn’t work. It _didn’t_ work. It’s not magic. It’s hormones.” He surged up to catch Tristan’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging and panting, then kissing him eagerly. “It’s hormones and it’s us. It’s us. I want you. _I_ want _you_. No damned glowing sword makes me want you. That’s me.” He gripped Tristan’s knee behind him, grinding against his hip, pressure and friction and heat- “This is me.”

"Ah- yes- I know-" Tristan groaned, arching against him. He threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging hard at his strands when Aran's teeth sank into his shoulder. "I'm just- I'm worried. Aren't you worried?"

Aran growled against his skin, nipping at him before he sighed and rested his cheek on his shoulder, staring at him. “ _No._ I’m not. We didn’t go through with it. And even if we had, it wouldn’t have worked because you’re feckin’ stubborn, Tris. And so am I. And I don’t feel like I’m under a compulsion or whatever. I wanted you for a long while and argued myself out of it a couple times and so did you. If Josie hadn’t kissed me and if you hadn’t happened along, we’d probably still not be-“ He sat up. “Look. I can choose to not kiss you as much as I want. I _like_ doing it. I don’t _have_ to.”

Tristan threaded his fingers on top of his stomach, peering up at him. "Okay. Right. So- I want to kiss you, too. I don't do it because I have to. But Tilly said this thing is strong. And that- that we don't know exactly how it works. So-" He dabbed his lips with his tongue. How could Aran be so calm about this? Tristan wasn't entirely sure he would get any sleep that night. "What if it just starts working all of a sudden? And then we can't be away from each other for more than ten minutes otherwise we'll- I don't know, pass out or something? Or die? Or- right, remember that movie we saw last month about this guy that snuck into that ancient temple and swore this oath to this god of justice without knowing it, and then his arm paralysed when he tried to steal something the next day? What if this thing kicks in one day and one of us lies to each other and his tongue falls off?" He inhaled sharply when he realised he'd said everything in one breath. He blinked up at Aran, biting his lip. "What then?"

“Well. Don’t lie to me, I guess? I mean- you lied like… twenty times today and nothing happened. But if you’re really worried about it,” he sighed. “I guess you’ll have to admit it when I win.”

" _What?"_ Tristan glared at him as he sat up. " _You_ have to admit when you lose!" He poked him in the chest with his finger. "You never fucking do!"

“And another one,” Aran smiled, infuriatingly. “How’s your tongue feeling, mate?”

"My _tongue,_ " Tristan grumbled, pushing him down, "is _fine._ How's yours? Because you lie to me. All the time. And you _cheat._ All the time. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do that."

“I don’t!” Aran laughed, wiggling under him. “I don’t! You do! And no dumb thing we did when we were little makes a damned difference.”

Tristan leaned down, touching his nose to his. "I. Don't. Cheat. Fuck, you're infuriating. I do hope this thing didn't work and I'm not stuck with you for the rest of my life."

“Ah, you’re stuck anyway. You’re my best friend.” Aran stuck his tongue out. “You’re stuck until your teeth all fall out. And your hair. And you’re a thousand pounds.”

"If we're stuck with each other," he narrowed his eyes, "you need to learn some manners."

His laughter was skipping stones on the shallows of the pond in sunlight. “Piss off- ‘manners’- oh, aye, Addington, what’s that then?”

"First off," Tristan said, flicking his tongue over Aran's lips, "you can't talk back to me. Not allowed. And when you lose -which is, frankly, all the time- you do so _gracefully_. Do you even know what that means?" He quirked a brow. "Or will I have to 'wank' it into to you?"

“Oh, I’m a slooooow learner,” Aran grinned, biting his lip. And his hands felt too damned good, sliding up Tristan’s chest, calluses dragging at his skin, fingers pinching and pulling at his flesh. 

"You are," Tristan sighed, kissing his way down his neck. Salt and sweat and earth and him. "You really are."


	15. Study Sessions

## [Tristan]

Tristan glanced up from his book. Aran was sitting on the opposite bench, flicking through the yellowed pages of an old book he had borrowed from the library.  _ The Chronicles of Hereward the Great, _ or something of that sort. Tristan had put in his earbuds as soon as Aran had started telling him, in startling detail, about the Fereldan king's conquests in Orlais, grinning all the while. Grinning, because he knew how little history interested Tristan, and how much it bored him. To the point of tears, sometimes. Troublesome. Infinitely troublesome, Aran was, and incredibly annoying, and the way he was worrying his lip with his teeth right now, leaving it flushed and glistening, made Tristan want to grab him, pull him in his lap and run his tongue over it until he shivered in his hold, and to the Void with whoever was to see. 

The thought alone sent things tightening everywhere, uncomfortably. He let his book fall closed and shoved it in his bag. "Gym?" he said quietly, glancing at the mostly empty courtyard.

Aran's gaze snapped up to his, his cheeks instantly brightening. "Sure," he said, biting back a grin, "aye." He closed his book and slung his backpack over his shoulder, his steps falling alongside Tristan's. "I thought you'd never ask." His hand brushed against his own, perhaps by accident. There was no one there at that hour, no one he could see. He itched to thread his fingers through his, like he'd done the other day when they'd gone for a walk in the woods behind Cavalry Hill and stopped to catch their breaths by the pond, and then they'd made out against a tree trunk, and Aran had the laugh of his life when he slithered his freezing fingers in Tristan's boxers and he'd gasped, but then it was good, so, so good-

He bit his lip when the memory brought on that familiar tightness in his core. He hooked his pinky over Aran's as they walked to the shadows behind the gym, squeezing lightly. Compromise, he told himself. He couldn't hold his hand like he wanted, but he could do this.

He pushed him back against the wall as soon as they'd stepped into their quiet, secluded place. They'd been visiting it almost daily for the past few weeks, sometimes several times a day, just for a kiss, a hug, a knowing grin where no one could see. He looked forward to those moments. Ached for them. Could think of nothing but them at times, and wasn't that the oddest thing? Aran. His childhood friend, his best mate. His boyfriend. All in one. Locked and tangled. Strange and brilliant. Bright blue eyes, laughing, a teasing smirk curling flushed, strawberry coloured lips. He kissed him.

Aran hummed, linking his arms behind his neck. "Ah, that's good." He threaded his fingers through his hair, pulling him down. "That's really bloody good. I've had a hunger."

"So have I," Tristan sighed, letting himself be drawn to him. He was drawn anyway, like a fish tied to a hook, so what was the point in denying it? "I was thinking about the pond."

"What of it?" Aran flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, sucking gently.

"You looked-" Tristan shivered, his palm smoothing down Aran's spine, "-really good against that tree trunk. Need to revisit that. Soon."

"Aye, alright," Aran laughed. "Plenty more tree trunks that are closer, but have it your way."

"I like whisking you away."

He snorted, teasing Tristan's earlobe with his thumb. "Right. I've figured. The farther the better, yeah?"

Tristan smiled as he cupped the back of his neck to kiss that grin right off his lips. What he wouldn't give to have school done and over with and go back home with him. Have dinner, argue for a bit about homework, finish it, eventually, after some persuasion, and then, them. Just them. More of that kissing and twisting and biting and-

"You dog."

Tristan glanced at the source of the sound, his blood curdling in his veins. Johnston was standing just a little way away, a grin plastered on his sun darkened face, his dark brown eyes shining with mischief. He crossed his arms before his chest, his gaze bouncing from him to Aran and back. "I thought I heard voices. And noises."

Tristan stepped away, pushing his hair off his face. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. He looked at Aran, whose face was as flushed as his. Maybe more? He couldn't tell. He opened his mouth to speak, but what could he say? Johnston had seen them already. Making up excuses would just make him look like a fool. He crossed his arms, mirroring Johnston's stance, and frowned. Deeply. As deeply as he could. "What do you want, Johnston?"

His friend's grin got wider, if that was possible. He let his arms fall, stepping closer. "So that's the bird you've been hiding from us!" He ruffled Aran's hair, chuckling. "Hey, squirt. How's it going? Not so much of a squirt, eh?" He laughed again, louder this time. "Squirt, squirt, squirt. Bet you've been doing a lot of that now." He elbowed Tristan, winking. 

"Fuck off, Johnston," Tristan narrowed his eyes. "This is none of your business."

"Didn't seem to bother you whose business it was when you had your tongue all the way to his tonsils," Johnston cackled, elbowing him again. "Boy, did I not see this coming."

Aran blew out his cheeks, “See… Ah…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking at Tristan. “It’s… not what it looks like?”

"So he didn't have his tongue all the way to your tonsils? Because that's  _ exactly _ what it looked like-"

"Maker-" Tristan rolled his eyes and scowled. "Can you stop talking about my bloody tongue? And his bloody tonsils?"

Johnston snorted, throwing his arm over his shoulders. "Look at you two. A match made in fucking heaven. How long have you had this going on, eh? I can't wait to tell Cardew and Penwith. Fred's going to shit himself. And Cardew owes me a sov. I kept telling him you're banging someone we know, but he wouldn't listen. Oh, you're a sly one, you are-"

Tristan wriggled out of his grasp, glaring at him. "You cannot tell the others."

"Why the Void not?" Johnston glanced at him, then at Aran with a quirk of his brow. "What have you got to hide, anyway? Plenty of people shagging their best mate."

"That's not-" he grunted in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's not what this is. And you cannot tell. Anyone. I mean it, Jake."

Johnston's smile faded, his brows gathering in thought. "You okay with this?" he turned to Aran.

"Of course he's-" Tristan let out a short huff, then pressed his mouth shut.

Aran glanced between them, lingering on Tristan for a beat before he bit his lip, shoving his hands into his pockets, “It’s what it is.”

Tristan took in a sharp breath, biting the inside of his lip down hard. Of course Aran wasn’t okay about them hiding it. He would have told everyone if he could. But that was- bloody Void, it wasn’t an option. Not for him. Not for either of them. And Johnston rarely kept his mouth shut about something such as this. His own personal life was a semi-public affair, with him telling everyone he knew practically everything he did. If he decided to tell Cardew about them-

He rubbed his temples, feeling his irritation surging. “That’s right,” he said sharply. “It is what it is. And you’re not telling. If I learn you’ve told a single soul-“

“Listen, mate,” Johnston said, crossing his arms again, his features unusually serious. “It’s your thing, yeah? You don’t want people to know, that’s up to you. But don’t go stringing the kid along.”

“He is not a - who’s stringing who along? What’s that supposed to mean?” Tristan glared at him. "What do you know about it?”

“All I’m saying,” Johnston said, raising a placating hand, “you’d both better know what you’re doing. You’ve been friends for years. Easy for things to get complicated once they turn into… y’ know.” He shrugged, then quirked a brow at Aran. “So you’re telling me,” he started, “that you’ve been snogging this prick all this while and you’ve told none of your girlfriends?”

Aran squinted up at him petulantly. “What girlfriends?”

“All the girls you hang out with. Montilyet, Ghiran. That tall, dark haired one with the glasses. Can never remember her name. Nice legs, though. And that other one that came last year- Lassiter? Yeah. So you’ve told them nothing?”

“No.” He itched his nose on the side of his shoulder, adding a non-committal, “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“Fine, fine, yes, whatever, it’s none of my business, you’ve said so a bunch of times already.” He rolled his eyes, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. “Right. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. But.” He gave them both a wide grin. “I’ll take some offers first.”

Tristan shot him a bored look, though he knew the answer already. “Offers for what?”

“For my silence, of course!” He laughed, clapping Tristan on the shoulder. “You didn’t think I was going to let my mates off the hook without a good, old fashioned bribe, did you?”

“Oh, for- what do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, grinning. “What have you got to offer?”

“Will my fist do?”

“Not at all, old pal. Not at all.” He turned to Aran, “What about you, squirt?”

He shifted on his feet, glancing at Tristan. “ _ Je m’en fiche s’il le dit. Qu’est-ce que tu veux? _ ”

Tristan let out a sharp breath, pursing his lips. “ _ Tu sais ce que je veux. Nous en avons parlé mille fois. _ ”

“ _ Oui, oui, d’ac, laisse beton _ .” Aran kicked his heel against his toes, frowning. “I can talk to Raithburn for you. If. You promise to not be a total arse about it.”

Johnston beamed, his brows climbing up his forehead. “Raithburn? You’d do that? She’s a knockout. Good, good. You talk to her, and I’ll make sure not a soul knows about your little thing. A Johnston always keeps his word.” He winked, holding his hand out. “Deal?”

“Aye.” Aran sighed, slapping his palm. “Please don’t be a dick, Jackal. She’s nice.”

“When am I ever?” He gave him a wounded look, which quickly melted into another teasing grin. “Right, I’m off. See you two around.” He punched Tristan on the arm. “Careful you don’t choke him with that tongue, eh?”

“Ugh, just go,” Tristan groaned, shoving him away. He threaded his fingers through his hair, sighing as he watched Johnston walk away. “Maker’s mercy, he’s an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Aran’s brows furrowed. “ _ He’s _ an idiot.”

Tristan blinked at him. Why did he look so annoyed all of a sudden? “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nothing. No point.” He itched the back of his neck, “It’s- Nothing.”

“Hey.” Tristan stepped closer. “Are you alright? Shall I go punch him? I will, next time I see him.”

Aran huffed, dropping his head to Tristan’s shoulder. “No. The time for punching is past. I just- What is it? I’m too short? Too young? What?”

“What?” Tristan stared at him wide-eyed. “Where is this coming from? What does being short have to do with… anything?” He smoothed his palm up his arm. “You’re not too young or too- anything. You’re fine. What’s wrong?”

“It’s so terrible to be seen with me, I have to bribe the feckin’ Jackal?” He looked up, soft blue eyes disturbingly liquid. “It sucks, mate.”

Tristan blinked at him again, his throat clenching. But- but they’d  _ talked  _ about it. They’d agreed. At least he thought they had. Why was he… Tristan let out a sigh through his nose, cupping his cheeks. “It’s not terrible. It’s not about that- I just-” He let out a slow exhale through his nose. “If people know, our parents will know. Your dad, and Patrick- he’ll make your life hell. And Mother- I have no bloody clue what she’ll do. She won’t want you hanging around, not if she thinks we’re not studying or that you’re a bad influence or-” He let his words trail off, watching him anxiously. Maker, they’d talked about this, over and over, why did it keep coming back to that? He hardly knew what else to say, but the way Aran was looking at him now felt like being stabbed in the gut. 

“I’m  _ not _ a bad influence. I’m not. I’m helpful. We do study. Your mom  _ likes _ me.” He sniffed. “And I don’t bloody care about- Patrick already  _ does _ make my life hell; he can’t get  _ worse _ . And so what- my dad can kiss my perky saddle-sore arse; it’s not like he’s all that fond of me anyway.” He tugged on Tristan’s sleeve. “Come on. We can’t tell anyone?  _ Anyone _ ? It’s maddening.” 

“It is. It is maddening.” Tristan pressed their foreheads together, brushing his thumb over his cheek. “Right. You’re right. Okay. We’ll- we can take it slow. We can tell Tilly and- and you can tell your friends. Those you trust. And we’ll see how it goes. Yeah?”

The warmth that flooded Aran’s eyes was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Really?” He grinned, throwing his arms around Tristan’s shoulders. “Really, really?”

Tristan laughed softly, pulling him in a tight hug. That  _ smile _ \- Maker, the way it brightened up his whole face. He rubbed his lips against Aran’s, breathing him in. “Yes. Really, really.” He kissed him deeply, chuckling with his happy little noises. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure it will.”

“Yes!” He bounced on his toes, syncopating their kisses, “Yes, yes, yes! It will! It’ll be brilliant!” Aran’s fingers were winding into his hair, pressing into his scalp, drawing him in. “You’re my favorite. My very favourite. Aye?”

“You’re my favourite, too.” Tristan grinned, pulling him flush against him. “Say it the other way.”

“I love you,” he nipped at Tristan’s lip. “I love you, I like you, I can’t wait to bite you.”

Tristan laughed, tracing Aran’s teeth on his lip with his tongue. “I love you, too. And your perky, saddle-sore arse.”

“Aye, you do.” He grinned, speaking around his prize. “You do!” He tugged at his lip, pulling Tristan with him back to the wall of the gym like a fish on a line. “You need to finish your paper during study hall, okay?” he asked, searching his gaze. “So we can go to the gatehouse after school. Aye?”

“Yes,” Tristan breathed, letting himself be drawn down to him. “Yes. You. Gatehouse. Coffee and smokes. Please and thank you.” He moaned softly into their kiss, already melting at the thought. Ah, if there was anything better than that, he didn’t bloody know of it.

“Paper first.” Aran licked at his lower lip then bit again, shivering in his hold. “Then,” he grinned. “Better than Antivan food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation for the Orlesian/French:
> 
> Aran: I don't care if he tells. What do you want?  
> Tristan: You know what I want. We've talked about this a thousand times.  
> Aran: Yes, yes, alright, forget it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


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